The Rochelle Chronicles: Book One-Round and Round
by Queen Gwenyvere
Summary: A ghost from Duncan's past comes to Paris looking for a loved one long dead. Who is she and what does she want? And will she open old wounds for the Scot, or get him killed? Set post finale before the movie. Please R&R!
1. Prologue

Author's Notes: This is set after the Series Finale, but before the movie. I wrote this fic years ago but am just now posting it. I'm going to post it as is, without revisions (at least that's the plan). I don't own any of the characters except Rochelle at this point. Please Read and Review.  
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PROLOGUE:  
Seacouver, 1993  
  
"Don't worry about me; I'm fine," Richie Ryan muttered sarcastically as Tessa and MacLeod descended the stairs of the old Tudor house, their arms linked, visible relief spread across their faces.  
  
MacLeod scowled, "I thought I told you to stay in the car." He felt Tessa gently squeeze his waist, a code-developed over time-for him to ease up on Richie, but he couldn't help it; he instinctively wanted to protect them. He tightened his embrace around her shoulders and kissed her neck, her hair, and finally, her lips. He inhaled the scent of her sweet perfume and could not imagine how he had gotten through the three hundred and eighty seven years he had spent without her.  
  
Richie shrugged enigmatically and leaned against the wooden door frame. He had grown accustomed to their long, frequent displays of immense affection. Grown was the operative word. When he, a street tough orphaned thief, had first begun living with them, he'd thought it not very macho of MacLeod to show his emotions the way he did, so freely. But that was a year and a half ago. Now, he wished he could do what Mac and Tessa did so easily. Of course, he would need a girlfriend first.  
  
"Go home," MacLeod whispered to Tessa.  
  
Tessa pulled away from Duncan. "What about you?" Her large eyes were full of concern. She wanted him to come home with her, crawl into bed, and forget this whole nightmare had ever happened. But MacLeod motioned to the large room that held several computers.   
  
"I want to make sure this guy has no other surprises lying around. All we need is a resurgence of Hunters." Tessa shuddered and nodded. She was disappointed, but understanding; she understood him so well, knew all his nuances. That is why she loved him so passionately. MacLeod turned to Richie. "Take her home; wait for me there."  
  
Richie nodded, "No problem." He could not imagine life without Tessa either. He loved her as though she was-not his mother-but perhaps his older sister. He passed the engaged couple, and opened the large, stained glass door for Tessa, softy clearing his throat. Nearly two years with MacLeod had taught him some gentlemanly manners. The Highlander was a veritable dictionary of chivalry.  
  
Tessa kissed MacLeod again, "I love you."  
  
"Me too." He gave her a gentle nudge towards the door then turned and sat down at a computer. Tessa watched him, repressing a sigh, and wished he didn't have to act like her knight in shining armor after he had all ready won the duel. Richie cleared his throat again. Smiling slightly, Tessa nodded and allowed him to lead her out of the house. He, growing into a younger Duncan in many ways, was so good to her; it was very, very difficult for her to imagine that it had been such a short time ago he had been a thief who had broken into their shop.  
  
Discreetly, Richie reached inside the car and pulled out a sweater for her. "Tess," he murmured softly. Tessa smiled in appreciation and wrapped the soft, light blue wool sweater around her; the night was chilly and rather damp. Almost eerie. She wanted to go home. Preferably with Mac, but he was in full Knights of the Round Table mode. Richie began to open the door, the handle making a click against the Thunderbird's black steel body; milliseconds later, before he could even let go of the chrome handle, Richie heard another click dangerously familiar; the click of a gun. A man whom Richie could not see jammed the gun into his back, ordering him to give over all his money. Tessa gasped in horror; she began to tremble.   
  
"Give me your money." the gunman demanded again. Richie reached inside the pocket of his black jeans and removed his wallet. Hastily, he handed it to the man. However, as far as he could tell, their attacker was barely a man, probably no more than eighteen, not much older than himself. Richie knew why they were being robbed; years on the street had taught him what to look for. This was most likely a kid in trouble looking for money for a quick high, or to repay a debt to a dealer or bookie. The junkie demanded Tessa's purse.  
  
"I, I don't have it with me." she stammered. Panicked, she looked towards the house in which an hour before she'd been held captive. She hoped to God that the power of her love, the power of her fear could bring MacLeod to their rescue. It usually did, during all those other times she had been in danger. But tonight, sadly, unfortunately, it did not.  
  
"You left your house without your purse?" the boy asked sinisterly.   
  
"This isn't my house. I, we were just getting out to stretch." Her blood was racing and she could hear it pound in her ears.  
  
"Right," he obviously did not believe the transparent story. The teen spotted the diamond engagement ring on Tessa's left finger. "The ring."  
  
"What?" Tessa asked.  
  
"Give me the damned ring!" he bellowed. He snatched it off her finger, nearly taking entire ring finger with it; out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure moving behind the glass door of the house. In a panic, he fired two shots and ran, taking with him a hundred dollars in cash, a condom, an engagement ring worth a couple thousand dollars, and the hopes and dreams of three people.   
  
Inside the house, MacLeod heard the shots and time stopped. Time, which for him and others like him, passed by slowly, like dripping tree sap. He spun on his heel and dashed out the stained glass door, jumping over cardboard boxes and milk crates in the process. He stopped just short of the bushes, spying two slumped figures lying still and inert on the cold, damp pavement by his car. Instinct told him to run to them, but the fastest gait he could manage was a slow and deliberate walk. It was almost as though his brain had been disconnected from the rest of his nervous system. His eyes were mainly focused on Tessa, who was lying very still, her eyes wide open; out of the corner of his eyes, MacLeod saw Richie lying dead. Subconsciously, MacLeod knew that would not last very long. Consciously, it was another person to grieve. Tessa, however, wouldn't be as lucky as Richie or MacLeod. She wouldn't come back to life, gasping for breath, lungs and heart and organs healed and working. She would not live to see   
MacLeod labor endlessly to teach Richie how to survive in the Game, to kill before he was killed. She wouldn't live to see her wedding day, honeymoon, fifty or sixty years with Duncan MacLeod, the love of her life, Immortal.  
  
MacLeod knelt at her head, cradling it gently, wiping the blood from her stained blouse, smoothing her hair, tears cleaning the splattered blood on her face. Her eyes were opened wide, depthless pools of shock and fear. Placing a gentle hand over her face, Duncan closed Tessa's eyes. Dimly, he felt his lap get wet and realized her body was growing heavier; her bladder had released and rigomortous was beginning to set in-death's final gifts. He whispered her name over and over, like a prayer, holding her lifeless body in his strong arms. Arms which could lift and hold a sword, kill at will, but only when necessary. Arms that had held Tessa for thirteen years, arms that could now do nothing more than offer protection from the cool wind, offer a safe haven, a place for her to be at peace, at rest.  
  
Richie sat up, dazed, confused, healed, alive. MacLeod gently laid Tessa's body on the damp earth, his lips brushing her own in a final goodbye. Richie's eyes filled with tears as he realized what had happened. The tears disappeared as an even more shocking realization set in; he was Immortal. Duncan nodded in silent affirmation. He handed Richie his jacket and instructed him to return to the shop. Still dazed, Richie headed off down the street, back to the antique shop, and MacLeod, Tessa's blood like a banner across his chest, stood to the sound of police sirens and the sight of flashing red lights.  
  
  
*Paris, the present*  
  
A young woman walked through the streets of Paris, a pack on her back, an address in her mind, and a sword beneath her black leather jacket. Her head was bowed to the whipping wind that blew her hair back and made it appear as though flames were sprouting from her head. The Parisian winters were cold and wet and unrelenting. She was tall, with hazel eyes and a quick, determined stride. She had one goal and it was to find a man and a woman she had been searching for since she was thirteen. She was now twenty-three, although she looked no older than eighteen. Before her, the majestic bell towers of Notre Dame pierced the sky and acted as a signal that her decade-long journey was almost at an end. She crossed the Seine, walking along the Pont Notre Dame, past the famous church, to the opposite side of the Seine where a barge was docked; and on that barge a man and woman whom she had crossed an ocean to find. The girl slowed her pace as she neared the barge, her heart pumping, her mind racing. She felt the buzz, the unmistakable, indescribable sensation that another Immortal was near. She smiled ironically and approached the boat. On its deck stood a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in beige trousers and a crisp black turtleneck. He wore no jacket despite the frigid weather; he squinted in the harsh winter sunlight. To him, she appeared blurred and unfamiliar, like a recurring dream that faded with dawn's light. To the woman, his appearance was familiar, yet foreign and new. It had been more than ten years since they had last seen each other, during which much had happened. Some of which neither of them knew about. He raised his hand to better his vision and she thought she saw a glint of recognition in those dark eyes.  
  
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."  
  
The Clan MacLeod? This was new. She noticed he had no sword and thought it foolish and was about to say so, but thought better of it. That was not how she wanted to make a first impression; a new first impression. Mustering up all her courage, she walked up the plank of the barge and stood before Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. "I know," Removing her small sunglasses, she looked him straight in the eye. "You do not remember me?"  
  
MacLeod stared at her blankly. "Should I?"   
  
She was slightly hurt, but had not expected him to remember her. "No," she said quietly. "I suppose you wouldn't." Extending her hand, an old, yet forgotten aquaintence of the Immortal Duncan MacLeod reintroduced herself, "I am Rochelle Picaut, but you might remember me as Shelly Evans."  
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Well? Are you intrigued? Do you want more? If you do, read and review and I'll post more.  



	2. Chapter One

Author's notes: I don't own any of them, except for Rochelle and her mother, at the moment. Please be kind; this is an old fic I'm dusting off and posting. Please R&R!  
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Boston, c. 1988  
  
Duncan MacLeod and Tessa Noel stepped off the white and yellow Mass Transit bus that had moments before stopped in front of the Boston Superior Courthouse. Tessa wrung her hands together nervously, seemingly unnoticing of the throngs of people who were disembarking behind her. She would have surely gotten swept away were not Duncan holding tightly to her hand. MacLeod looked around at the tall buildings, noting how much the city had changed in seventy odd years. He squeezed Tessa's hand as they walked up the large marble steps. In the elevator, she paced nervously. He caught her arm gently and smiled reassuringly. "Hey, don't worry about it. They'll say yes." If the judge decided in their favor, MacLeod knew their lives would change forever; not only would they be getting a child, but a teenager who had witnessed her own mother's death. His reassurances were not as effective as he'd hoped them to be. Tessa shook her head, her blond mane flying about wildly. "What if they don't?"  
  
"They will." Tessa and MacLeod stepped off the elevator and slowly walked down the long hallway. At the end, on a wooden bench sat a middle-aged woman and a teenage girl with chestnut hair like her mother's. Her head popped up as she spotted Tessa and she jumped up, a half smile on her face. Tessa and MacLeod stood beside her, Tessa hugging her protectively, MacLeod trying to fit in to their all ready well-established family. The social worker placed her hand on the girl's shoulder and led her back to the bench, tearing her from Tessa's arms. Mac could see his love's distress and he whispered something in her ear. Tessa's lawyer stuck his head through the large courtroom doors and asked Tessa and Mac to come inside.   
  
Tessa smiled at the teen. "We'll be together, I promise." The doors shut behind her.  
  
Duncan and Tessa sat behind their lawyer and waited for the judge to enter. Moments later, he came in, black robe puffed out behind him like wings. Slowly, he sat, then opened a manila folder. "I have considered the matter of the custody of the minor, Rochelle "Shelly" Evans. It's always difficult to decide a case like this. Mr. Murphy," he addressed Tessa's lawyer. "Ms. Noel is petitioning for custody of the minor, is she not?"  
  
Murphy stood. "Yes, your honor. Ms. Noel is the girl's godmother, appointed years ago by the girl's now deceased mother."  
  
The judge nodded. "And Ms. Noel lives out west, in Seacouver, as an antiques dealer and artist, is that correct?"  
  
"Yes. Your honor," the lawyer answered. "Ms. Noel lives with Mr. Duncan MacLeod; both deal in antiques. Ms. Noel is also a sculptor, dealing primarily with metals."  
  
"Duly noted." The judge turned to the prosecutor. "And the state feels that the living conditions are satisfactory for said child?"   
  
Beside him, MacLeod could feel Tessa squirm every time they referred to Rochelle as though she were being auctioned. A woman stood. "Yes, your honor. However, the state is concerned with the fact that Ms. Noel and Mr. MacLeod frequently leave Seacouver and travel to Paris, where they live for extended periods of time."  
  
"Your honor," Murphy interjected. "Tessa Noel was born in Paris and has dual citizenship, both in France and the United States. She has committed to arranging a schooling and travel schedule that would allow said minor, Rochelle Evans, to live with her and Mr. MacLeod in Paris, and still maintain her academics."  
  
The prosecutor shook her head. "Your honor, the state feels that in the best interest of the child, her needs would be better met if she were to live in a stable home environment. May the state also remind the court that, although they live together, Ms. Noel and Mr. MacLeod are not married."  
  
The judge nodded and thoughtfully stroked his graying beard. "I have reviewed the testimony and written reports from The Department of Social Services, and taken in to consideration what has been said here today. I have decided that the minor, Rochelle Evans, will not fall into the custody of Miss Noel." Tessa let out a short cry. Duncan took her hand in his own. The judge continued, "Rochelle Evans is under state custody until she turns eighteen. Case closed." He banged his gavel, rose, and left the courtroom.  
  
"No!" Tessa cried. "He can't do that! Nicole wanted Shelly to live with me, not in some foster home. I promised her; I promised Rochelle!" Duncan held her as tears streamed down her face. He could understand her frustration.  
  
"Surely we can appeal this." He looked beseechingly at their lawyer, who had been chosen rather hastily.  
  
Murphy nodded. "Yes, but it would take years, money and be detrimental to all your emotional health. Go to any lawyer in this state and he'll tell you the same thing: you'd probably get the same verdict. I'm sorry." He gathered his things and left the courtroom; after all, he'd already gotten his retainer. A short time later, MacLeod sadly led Tessa out as well. Seeing them exit, Rochelle stood, took one look at Tessa's tear-stained face and began to cry herself. She tore away from her social worker and ran to Tessa, grabbing at her blouse in desperation.   
  
"No! Please don't let them take me Aunt Tessa! Please! You promised! You promised, you promised!" She tried to hold on to her godmother, for protection and love, but the social worker restrained her and led her away. Shelly screamed for Tessa, her mother, Duncan, cried out to them. Her cries echoed in the halls and in the minds of those who heard them, even long after she'd left. Tessa sobbed and collapsed into Duncan's arms.  
  
  
*Paris, the present*  
  
Ten years later, Shelly Evans, who now went by the name Rochelle Picaut, and who was, ironically enough, Immortal, sat on a stool on Duncan MacLeod's barge. Her hair was the same length, though now it was a deep red, instead of auburn. Her eyes, which had once been a clear, strikingly crystal blue, were now hazel thanks to the wonders of contact lenses. She was a little taller and looked not much older than she had when he'd last seen her; MacLeod wondered when she had died. "For the next three years, I was tossed around to five or six different foster homes." *So much for a stable home environment.* "Eventually, one night, when I was sixteen, I had had it. I sneaked away from the foster home, which at that point was on an island off the Cape-remember the day we spent down there?" She shook her head, knowing she had allowed herself to get sidetracked. "Anyway, I sneaked away and went to my favorite place, a bridge that over looked the Nantucket harbor." She paused. "Then I jumped."  
  
MacLeod coughed, "You killed yourself?"  
  
Rochelle nodded, "I was so angry. At my mom, for dying. At Aunt Tessa, for breaking her promise. At you, because I thought you were the reason the judge would not grant custody. I was mad at the world, more or less. When I jumped, I considered myself a bastard orphan whom no one loved or cared about."  
  
"That's not true," Mac scolded her softly. "She loved you. It broke her heart to be denied custody."  
  
*Past tense?* Shelly wondered. Had they broken up? She surveyed the barge and did not see much. There was an antique wooden stove, the small kitchen area, a bed covered in white, a bookcase, a couch, a mat and small Japanese-style coffee table on the floor. She saw no signs of a female influence whatsoever and thought it odd. She turned to him, thoughtfully, "You knew, didn't you? That week you spent with me in Boston; you knew I was Immortal."  
  
Mac nodded, "I knew. And I was hoping that the judge would grant custody so that when you did eventually die, I could be the one to teach you." Wondering, he asked, "Who was you teacher?"  
  
Rochelle sighed, almost forlornly, "Frank Mamakos. He worked with Social Services and was actually the one to ID my body. When I came to he was there with clothes and an explanation. He quit DSS and became my teacher."  
  
"Where is he now?" MacLeod asked, pouring them drinks of brandy. He handed the glass to her, which she accepted gratefully.   
  
Shelly gulped her brandy as though it was water, "Dead. Some guy whacked him about two years ago." Her words were even, lacking emotion. She had the greatest respect for her former teacher, but dead was dead was dead and that was it.  
  
After a few moments of silence, Duncan asked, "Why did you come to Paris?"  
  
"I belong to an American theater troupe. We do standard stuff like ballets, concertinas, musicals and plays. We just came from London where we spent three weeks performing at the embassy. We are set to perform for the ambassador here as well. It is a reminder of home, I guess," she sounded indifferent. "We go from country to country, embassy and consulate to embassy and consulate, bringing a little bit of the US to them."  
  
MacLeod nodded, "How did this come about?" During the brief time he'd known her, he'd never thought of her doing anything theatrical or musical.  
  
Rochelle smiled ruefully, "We needed money." She swallowed her laughter as MacLeod's face took on a strange perplexity. She attempted to explain, drawling, "It ain't cheap to run a theatre company, so the director applies for local, state and government grants. To get the government grant, which was very substantial, he had to make a deal: the money for a good will mission, all expenses paid once we got to Europe; all we had to do was get here." Which was more expensive then she had imagined. If she had to participate in one more bake sale, cash in one more empty soda can, or make one more speech asking some elderly people for donations, she might have to spontaneously combust. The thought struck her as amusing and she swallowed a smile.   
  
"So," Rochelle asked the question that had silently been burning on her lips since her arrival. "Where is Aunt Tessa?" MacLeod lowered his eyes and refilled her glass. Rochelle furrowed her brow and sipped her liquor. "What, did you two break up or something? I had always imagined you guys would be together forever." The thought of a mother and a father figure had been what kept her going all those years.  
  
"Shell-Belle," MacLeod said, using a nickname she had not heard uttered in a decade. "Tessa died over five years ago." Shelly dropped her glass and it shattered and splintered on the wooden floor. Her hand flew to her mouth and she was about to ask all the million questions that were flying around inside her mind when they both felt the presence of another Immortal. Their senses heightened, their minds buzzed, and Rochelle's stomach lurched.  
  
"Mac?" a female voice called, her boots thumping as she descended the stairs. "Are you here?" Amanda entered the barge, carrying a few suitcases and dressed for a Modern Gothic costume ball; she saw Shelly and MacLeod and the shattered glass. "Am I interrupting something?" she asked, the nerves in her arm twitching, waiting for the message to reach for the scabbard of her sword, hidden beneath her long rain coat.  
  
"Actually," MacLeod began.  
  
"No," Rochelle cut him off. She gathered up her backpack, apologizing profusely for the broken glass. Quickly, she rushed past Amanda, not bothering to say hello or goodbye, and ran up the stairs and off the barge.  
  
"Shelly!" MacLeod called after her, but it was too late. Angrily, he sighed and turned to Amanda, who had removed a dustpan from a cabinet and had begun sweeping up the shattered remnants of the glass. She looked up at him, her brown eyes full of questions.   
  
And she asked him a second time, "Did I just interrupt something?"  
  
"Yes." A pause. "No," Duncan rubbed the back of his neck wearily and sat on the wooden steps leading up to his bed and one of two possible exits. "It's a long story." Amanda came and sat beside him.   
  
"I have time." She twisted her upper body and began massaging his broad, muscular shoulders. Her ministrations felt good and MacLeod began to speak.   
  
"That was Shelly Ev-, er, Rochelle Picaut. I knew her when she was a child and she came looking for me."  
  
"For you?" Amanda asked, her thin hands moving down his back.  
  
"Not just me. She came looking for Tessa."  
  
Amanda momentarily stopped her ministrations. She had met Tessa once, a long time ago. Amanda had been traveling with the circus at the time, and met up with Duncan and Tessa purely by chance. When she had seen Mac with Tessa, she'd been insanely jealous; she'd even tried, on several occasions, to persuade Mac to leave Tessa. She continued massaging, "What does she have to do with her?"  
  
"Rochelle is Tessa's goddaughter. After Rochelle's mother died, Tessa, we, petitioned for custody, but were denied. Tessa lost touch and now Shelly's here looking for her."  
  
"And you told her what happened," Amanda assumed.   
  
Duncan nodded. He stood up and began pacing the barge. "Amanda, I have to find her and explain everything."  
  
Amanda remained seated on the steps. Her brows raised and she began twisting her hands together. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?" He spun on his heel and stared at her. She saw the need and determination in his eyes; she conceded. He could always make her agree. "All right. We'll find her. Do you have any idea where she's staying?" MacLeod shook his head. "Okay," Amanda continued, always thinking, a reflex now, after spending time with Wolfe. "Is there another reason she's in Paris, besides finding you that is."  
  
"She's here to perform for the US ambassador, with some theatre troupe, I think she said."  
  
"Then she's at the embassy." Amanda declared factually.  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"I read it in the newspaper I found in the taxi. Honestly Duncan, you've got to read more."   
  
Annoyed, MacLeod shook his head. "How do you suggest we get in to the embassy?" Had this happened earlier, all Duncan would have had to do was ask his friend at the embassy to get them in. But now...now another of his friends was dead.  
  
"Easy," Amanda said nonchalantly. "There is a dinner tomorrow tonight for all the members of the theatre troupe. All we have to do is get ourselves on the guest list."  
  
MacLeod's eyes widened. "Sure. 'All we have to do is get ourselves on the guest list,'" he mimicked. "Right." He watched as Amanda walked over to the table and flipped open his laptop.   
  
"You doubt me?" she asked, her fingers flying over the keys. After a few more quick keystrokes she stood and smiled. "Done." Nick would love this, she thought.  
  
"What did you do?" Mac asked incredulously.  
  
"I hacked into their system and put us on the list; it was incredibly easy."   
  
"You've taken to hacking, have you?" He used to hack; he still could if he wanted.   
  
Amanda shrugged innocently. "Thanks to your code of ethics, which I find incredibly sexy by the way, I can't steal anymore." Okay, that was a lie, she had stolen a lot since they had last seen each other, but she only used her powers for good; if Wolfe, a cop understood that, then she was sure Duncan would-when she told him, which would be later. Much later.   
  
For the first time, MacLeod took a good look at Amanda and his eyes widened, as though seeing her for the first time. Her hair was white blonde, and she was dressed in a style that was a cross between a medieval dominatrix, and the stereotype of what an undercover agent would dress like. She was wearing all black, a leather corset that tied in the front, thank you, and tight flared leather pants. Her trench coat billowed out like wings behind her and it made him wonder what she had gotten herself into.   
  
"What are you wearing?" he exclaimed. "And what have you done to your hair?"  
  
Amanda whirled around for inspection, "You like? It helps me blend in."  
  
*Blend in?* "Are you back in the circus?"   
  
She smiled, "No. Nick and I..." But she caught herself.  
  
Too late. "Who's Nick?' MacLeod asked, feeling twinges of jealousy.   
  
Amanda shook her head, "I'll explain everything later." She kissed him and headed for the door. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go and make myself pretty. Pick me up at seven thirty. Don't forget to wear a tie." She snatched her suitcases, bounced up the stairs and out the door, leaving MacLeod alone, wondering where his tux was.  
  



	3. Chapter Two

Author's notes: I don't own any of the Highlander characters. I do, however, own Rochelle and her family. Please read and review. I wrote this when I was 15, just so you know, so please be kind. I'm posting it without much revision just to see the kind of response I get.  
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Duncan MacLeod drove his green Range Rover through the gates and up the long, steep driveway, following a long procession of cars. The large embassy loomed before them, its perfectly manicured grounds covered in snow, the massive roof covered in snow, a light in every window, making the estate look like a picture worthy of "Better Homes and Gardens"-they had an image to portray and a reputation to keep up after all. MacLeod parked the car and both he and Amanda, who was dressed in a long red dress that clung to her every curve, got out and began walking towards the large glass doors. There were two guards stood on either side, checking invitations. A tall, blonde-haired man dressed in standard military dress uniform inquired after their invitations. Amanda turned to Duncan. "Well, honey, show the man our invitation." MacLeod made an elaborate display of searching every pocket in his tuxedo. When he could not find the invitation, he turned to Amanda.   
  
"Don't you have it?"  
  
Amanda's mouth opened in shock. "Me? I told you to bring it."  
  
"But I though you had it in your purse, *dear*."   
  
They bantered back and forth for several more moments, when Amanda looked beseechingly at the guard. "We're on the guest list, can't you just let us in?"  
  
"I'm sorry ma'am, but no one enters this embassy without an invitation." Amanda tried again, but got the same answer. She was about to try a third time when she and Mac felt another Immortal's presence. Duncan looked up and saw Rochelle emerge from behind a statue. She was dressed in a soft green gown, with a long green chiffon scarf wrapped about her neck. Her long hair fell about her shoulders and MacLeod now knew what Tessa had been talking about all those years; done up, Rochelle could look years older. Now that she was eternally frozen at the age of sixteen, anything to make her look older would help. She could pass for eighteen. Which, as MacLeod thought about it, was probably how she was able to remain employed by the troupe.  
  
"It's all right," she called, coming up behind the guard. "They're with me." The guard nodded and ushered them inside. Amanda thanked him, smiling sweetly, and followed Shelly and MacLeod. Shelly whipped around on her high heels, almost losing her balance in the process. "What in Hell are you doing here?" she hissed, obviously none too happy to see either of them.  
  
Amanda's eyes shifted uncomfortably between the two other Immortals before she gave up and took an amazing interest in the ornate marble embassy floors.  
  
"I had to tell you...everything," MacLeod answered.   
  
Rochelle sighed sadly, "It could not wait?" It had waited a day, she reluctantly remembered. For one day, she had been running on adrenaline. She had chosen to set aside what had happened at the barge and throw herself into her work. She had been doing a lot of throwing since Frank had died.  
  
MacLeod shook his head.   
  
Suddenly bored with the shiny multi-colored stone, Amanda piped up, "I couldn't talk him out of it."  
  
Shelly looked at her as if just noticing her. "Who are you?"  
  
Amanda extended her hand graciously, "Amanda."   
  
Rochelle shook Amanda's hand, "So you're the infamous Amanda. I have been told quite a few stories about you."  
  
Amanda cocked her head, "Really? By whom?"  
  
Shelly smiled coyly, "A mutual friend." She then grabbed the arm of a passing butler. "Pierre," she said. "Could you give my friend Amanda here a quick tour of the embassy?"   
  
Pierre shook his head. "I'm sorry Mademoiselle, but I have to help prepare for the banquet." He stood tall and spoke with a thick French accent, a butler hired for the occasion.  
  
Rochelle dismissed it with a wave of her hand as though she ran the place. "There are a million other people who can do that. Can you do this for me? Please?" she begged. She poured it on thick, pleading with her long lashed eyes.  
  
The butler nodded and MacLeod detected a fluctuation in the color of the man's cheeks. "*Oui*, Mademoiselle Picaut. This way," he said, extending his arm to Amanda. She asked him a question about the value of a painting they passed, to which he replied that is was quite valuable indeed, an original.  
  
"*Merci*," Rochelle thanked him and led MacLeod into an unoccupied drawing room. She sat on an over stuffed velvet couch, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. MacLeod sat on an antique rocking chair opposite the couch; the silence in the drawing room was deafening. Shelly raised her head and looked straight into Mac's brown eyes. "Tell me. All of it."  
  
Duncan took a deep breath. "Shell-Belle," he said softly, using Tessa's intimate nickname for her, though he saw no glimmer in her eyes; she just looked at him, her intense and unwavering gaze telling him not to coddle her.   
  
With great resignation, he began at the beginning, knowing most modern Tessa-MacLeod history would have to be explained. In a quiet and deep voice, he told her about the Watchers and their purpose, which meant he also had to tell her about James Horton and his band of renegade Watchers who had sought to banquish Immortals from the face of the earth, seeing them as abominations. He then moved on to the story of Darius, the gentle Immortal priest who tragically died at the hands of Hunters. He then explained how he and Tessa and Richie had fled back to the Pacific Northwest for protection. As Rochelle sat in tearful silence, MacLeod informed her of the conditions surrounding Horton's eventual death, and the role he had played in it. With a type of wistful happiness, he told her of his and Tessa's engagement and their plans for marriage. He explained to Rochelle about one of Horton's Watchers, still determined to wipe out Immortals and how he managed to lure Immortals to his booby-trapped house. The Highlander explained how Tessa had been abducted, then later rescued.   
  
"I sent them home, Tessa and Richie, I mean. I had decided to go back in, to make sure there were no other chances of it ever happening again. A junkie came up behind them and demanded their money. He got a few hundred dollars and her engagement ring, then I guess he panicked, because shot them and ran. By the time I got to them, they were both dead." His face twitched as he struggled to hold back bitter tears and old rage. He decided against telling her that he and Richie had found the junkie some time later, but now sober, he barely remembered doing it-which was of no consequence, because the cops could not bring him up on charges. How could Richie have explained to them how he too had been murdered?  
  
Rochelle's mouth worked and a few stray tears ran down her face. She hung her head and quietly thanked him for explaining it all to her. Then she apologized for running off earlier in the day. "You have to understand that this afternoon was *not* the family reunion I had been looking and hoping for *at all*." She laughed quickly, in spite of herself. Just then, a maid entered the room, announcing that the first course was being served. Shelly slapped her thighs resolutely and in one graceful motion, rose from the couch. She extended her hand to Duncan. He accepted it and together, they went in search of Amanda. "I really am glad you're here," she whispered to him, her breath warm on his cool skin. "I absolutely hate these formal dinners; they are stuffy and boring."  
  
MacLeod chuckled as he spotted Amanda emerging from one of the large staterooms, looking, well, peculiar. He waved her down, noticing how tightly she was clutching her small red handbag. Inwardly, he sighed, immediately recognizing the warning signs he had come to know so well over the centuries. "Give it to me," he ordered, holding open his hand.   
  
Amanda's eyes opened widely and she smiled with child-like innocence, "I don't know what you're talking about, darling."  
  
But MacLeod would have none of it, "Give it here."   
  
Now it was Amanda's turn to sigh. Exasperatedly, she reached into her stuffed purse and drew a small yet expensive crystalline paperweight from it, placing it in the Highlander's hand. He discreetly passed it on to Rochelle, who nonchalantly deposited it on a nearby table. Amanda bit her lip. There was going to be hell to pay. She knew her younger lover did not approve of her thievery. That was why she had not mentioned it to him. Or explained why she had moved. Or told him about a certain ex-cop.   
  
MacLeod folded his arms, "I thought you weren't stealing any more."  
  
Amanda shrugged slightly, "Would you believe me if I told you this was just a one-shot deal?" Of course he wouldn't, she knew that, but what the hell? It had been worth a shot.  
  
Duncan glowered. Eve though he was younger, he was far more menacing than she had initially believed him to be, all those years ago. Mac said slowly, gritting his teeth, "Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with Nick?"  
  
Amanda sighed. The gig, as they put it, was up. "Could we possibly about this at some other time?" she hissed, grabbing him by the arm. They locked eyes and Amanda knew there was no way to avoid the subject now.  
  
But Rochelle intervened, coming between them and taking hold of both their arms. "Yes, let's," she said, dragging them nearer the grand dining room. "In case you have both forgotten, there is a room full of diplomats and my colleagues waiting on the other side of the door, and your squabbling has probably held up the entire thing." She hooked her arm into MacLeod's and ordered, "Now march."  
  
"Yes ma'am," he replied, his voice wry, for the moment putting his anger on the shelf. The three Immortals entered the lavish dining room. A long table ran down the center, while another ran horizontally forming a T. Both were decorated with beautiful centerpieces, shimmering crystal glasses, imported china, and fine silk napkins. An elaborately decorated Christmas tree was the opulent focus of the room; it had large, gleaming ceramic and glass bulbs, and shining silver tinsel that glistened in the light of the real candles. A bright shining star sat on top. An array of wrapped, yet most assuredly empty boxes decorated the base. A lone violinist stood at the far end of the hall, which was lit entirely by candlelight, playing softly. The light cast eerie shadows across the faces of all who entered. The ambassador and his family came through a door at the far left of the table. They took their seats at the head table, surrounded by their various guests, and assorted dignitaries. Then, the fifty members of the North American Theatre Troupe-or NATT, as their promotional sweatshirts read-who were dressed to the nines, took their seats as well. Amanda and MacLeod sat on either side of Rochelle, each draping the napkins across their laps, one appraising its monetary value. Waiters and waitresses poured through the doors, some carrying steaming bowls of soup, others, decanters of wine.  
  
After the wine had been poured and every last bowl had been set in front of a body, the ambassador, a stout and balding man, ceremonially tapped his glass with his knife, drawing the attention of all the diners. He raised his glass in a toast to the members of the North American Theatre Troupe, intoning endless thanks of their hard work and dedication, droning on incessantly about how much he and all the other United States dignitaries (and their families) looked forwards to all that the members of the North American Theatre Troupe had in store during their stay. In closing, he promised them two days worth of an exciting, intensive tour of the city. Shelly shot MacLeod a look that seemed to say, "See what I mean." He nudged Amanda, who had started to doze. She snorted softly. Finally, the ambassador finished his address, allowing all dinner guests to at last enjoy their soup, which had been quickly growing cold. People held private conversations with those around them, but no one addressed anyone who was more than ten feet from them until the soup dishes were being cleared.  
  
The ambassador's wife finished her soup, set down the soon, and regally dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, summoning a waitress to take her dish. "Ms. Picaut," she said, staring straight at Rochelle, pronouncing it "Pea-coat." Rochelle returned the woman's gaze with equal intensity, as she was addressed. "I understand you attended the University of Alaska, is that correct?"  
  
"Alaska?" MacLeod murmured under his breath.  
  
Shelly sipped her newly refilled wine thoughtfully, then placed her elbows on the table, interlocking her fingers and resting her chin on the structure. "Yes, ma'am. I was living in Alaska at the time and decided to pursue my double Masters of Classical Theatre and Vocal performance. I also managed to be one credit shy of a psychology certificate by the time I graduated. All I need is that one credit and two years of graduate school, and I will have a Masters." She finished listing her impressive credentials, then asked simply, "Why do you ask?"  
  
The woman, either unfazed or unimpressed-or both-by Rochelle's resume, inquired, "I asked because I was wondering if you knew of a Professor Berkowitz. With that grocery list, I'd imagine you had at least heard of him."  
  
MacLeod could see that Rochelle and the ambassador's wife were going to have an all-out battle of wits until there was only one woman standing. Amanda, not to mention everyone at the table, including Rochelle's boss and the ambassador, took notice of the civil war of words.  
  
Rochelle nodded simply, "I do know him. I was never lucky enough to have him as a professor, though our paths did cross time and again."  
  
The ambassador's wife leaned in, mimicking Rochelle's arm position, "And what was your opinion of him?" She had a look in her eyes as though she had just laid a trap.   
  
But Shelly was more than ready. "Well, some of my classmates had a nickname for him: they called him Beanie-Eyed Berkowitz, because he wore spectacles that made his eyes appear quite small. In the course of the conversations I was privileged enough to have with him, I came to one conclusion."  
  
"And what was that?"  
  
"Does she really want to know?" Amanda whispered.   
  
Rochelle dropped the bomb, "The man could argue with Satan himself and not only win, but leave with control of Hell and half of Heaven." She again sipped her win and sweetly asked, "Why do you ask?"  
  
The ambassador's wife fired back, "He's my brother."  
  
But the Immortal actress was determined to win. She peered over her fingertips and looked the middle-aged woman up and down. Then she nodded, "I can see the resemblance."  
  
MacLeod cast a glance at the NATT director and found the man looking ready to slide under the table and leave only his resignation and alias behind. The ambassador, however, looked highly amused; the man had found someone who could cut his wife down to size. MacLeod cast a sidelong glance at Amanda and could sympathize with the man. The waiters returned with the next course, saving Rochelle from any further battles. This course consisted of Cornish hens in a white wine sauce accompanied by an array of exotic vegetables and some other unique foods they could not identify. The ambassador and the other diplomats chatted idly with each other while their wives gossiped and giggled. The members of NATT discussed practice schedules, among other things, and tried to persuade others to switch roles, and debated which musical to begin work on; after all, they would be retiring the present one, "Les Miserables", after they left Paris.  
  
Amanda turned to Rochelle, "Alaska, huh? I've been around in eleven hundred years and that is probably one of the places I've never been."  
  
"At least with Nick," Duncan muttered sourly.  
  
Amanda glared at him, "All right, that's enough! He's a friend, a colleague, that's all. Get over it." She shook her head, getting quite flustered, "Besides, it's my life, and I don't have to justify to you anyway. I don't ask you about your liaisons."  
  
That was the straw that broke the Scottish camel's back, "Liaisons! He went from a colleague to a liaison? And I don not have liaisons. We never agreed, not in three hundred and seventy years, to be exclusive." The Highlander's face was beet red and the two elder Immortals had seemed to forget that Rochelle was seated between them.  
  
But she would have none of it and interrupted, pushing them away from her, "Whoa! Antony, Cleopatra, retire to your corners. Christ! This isn't Celebrity Death Match you know. We're in an embassy at a banquet. I will not have you embarrass me." She pretended to pout, "Besides, we got off the topic: me!" Rochelle brightened up, seeing her companions throw in the towel, at least for now. "We were discussing my house in Alaska. If you have the time, Amanda, I could show it to you sometime; when Frank was killed, the estate reverted to me."  
  
"An estate?" Amanda's eyes widened. "We're not just talking Little House on the Arctic here, we're talking estate?" The monetary possibilities were astounding.  
  
MacLeod piped up, interrupting Amanda's overly wild imagination, "Why did Frank choose Alaska?"  
  
"He wanted to get as far away from our old connections as possible, so he dragged my whiny little ass over three thousand miles. At first I hated it: cold weather, no one to talk to, rigorous training. But now I love it and try to get back there whenever I can-since NATT is based out of St. Louis," she added, finishing her meal and allowing a waitress to take the plate, knowing more wine and food would follow, most likely salad if they were following European meal traditions. Rochelle happened to glance up as she sipped the last of her wine and her eyes fell upon a row of portraits on the wall behind the ambassador's head. She saw one in particular drew her undivided attention.   
  
The salad came, as did more wine, and MacLeod noticed Rochelle had suddenly grown uncharacteristically quiet. He nudged her, "Homesick?"  
  
Abruptly, "Did you ever meet my mother?"  
  
"No," he replied slowly, sounding perplexed. "Why?" He let is eyes follow her line of sight and examined the portrait. Then the missing pieces fell into place. "Is that her?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.   
  
Rochelle nodded silently. In the hustle and bustle of flying from country to country, going to endless rehearsals and finding lost friends, she had forgotten that this was where her mother had once lived. This was where Nicole had searched for missing articles of clothing; where she had come home from various dates with various and unending men. This is where she had told her parents she was going to have a baby out of wedlock, and had no idea who the father was. Where her parents, reeling from the recent death of another child, in fury, tossed their only surviving daughter out on the streets to fend for herself and pay for her crimes. This was where Nicole and her long-time friend, a young Tessa Noel, had sneaked in during a banquet and completely and totally moved all of Nicole's things from the embassy to an apartment they would share near the Sorbonne. Nicole would never again see her parents; they would never see their only granddaughter. She and Tessa would be on their own, soon with a baby: Tessa, an   
aspiring artist with little money, and Nicole, eighteen, knocked up, without a family, a retired tart soon to have a child.  
  
Amanda finally took notice of her soundless dining companions and found that the candles had become very black indeed. Rochelle had tears in her eyes and Mac looked as though he was groping for words. Before she could even say anything, Rochelle excused herself from the table, feigning illness, and scurried out of the room before anyone could ask any questions. The Immortal thief turned to Mac. "What did I miss?" She had been deep in conversation with the person on the other side of her; they had been discussing investment portfolios.  
  
MacLeod sighed, "Rochelle's mother, Nicole, was the daughter of a diplomat. They lived here." he furrowed his brow, trying to remember what Tessa had told him, all those years ago. "About six months before Nicole got pregnant, her twin sister," He indicated the portrait of a man with salt and pepper hair, his stunning wife, and two equally beautiful, equally identical teen age daughters. "Noreen, died in a car crash along the left bank. The parents were crushed. They were enraged to find Nicole pregnant out of wedlock. So they kicked her out. Tessa invited Nicole to move in with her, and they raised Rochelle until she was five. By that time, Tessa and I had decided to live together, and Nicole had gotten a good job offer in Boston."  
  
"And then what happened?" Amanda asked, enthralled and deeply pitying her new young friend.  
  
"Tessa never saw Nicole again." The sadness seemed almost double for him, speaking of Tessa, long dead and Nicole, Rochelle's mother, Tessa's friend, also long dead. So many dead.  
  
Amanda shook her head, "Sad. All of it is just so sad."   
  
But sadness was part of Immortal life. It was a constant companion, quiet as the death it was born from. It was the invisible cloak Immortals wrapped themselves in. Sadness was accepted and taken in, but rarely displayed-though it was ever present. It was sharper than the sharpest of accouterments that could bring Immortals either salvation or eternal death. Sadness was like an undetected virus that could lay dormant forever, then strike at the most inopportune and unfortunate of moments. Sadness left its victims cold, naked and bleeding, vulnerable to attacks that could render a person weaker than a dying babe. But it could also, if treated respectfully and digested fully, make an individual stronger than the fabled son of the greatest god of Olympus. Yes, sadness was conjoined with the shadows that followed Immortals to battles at dusk and led them home when dawn's light illuminated the distant horizon.   
  
Eventually, Rochelle returned to the banquet, making up an excuse of an allergy to something in the hen. She looked pale, her eyes were red, and her cosmetics seemed newly applied. When she took her seat between Duncan and Amanda, he squeezed her hand gently, knowing she was trying to push it from her mind, as if that was at all possible. Amanda, ever the optimist, ever the shopper, offered to take her on a tour of the boutiques in the next days, partly because she needed an excuse to go shopping. She meant well, but it was no good. Rochelle sipped her wine, toyed with her salad, ate little of her dessert, and drank her coffee long after it turned cold. The banquet ended as formally as it had begun, with a toast; this time with gourmet coffee instead of fine wine. After a few doors had been greased, the ambassador and his family returned to their living quarters, the diplomats rolled back to their residences, and the members of the North American Theatre Troupe retired to their rooms.  
  
"Talk to her," Amanda whispered at the door of the embassy. She kissed him and expertly pulled the keys to MacLeod's jeep from his jacket pocket. "Call and I'll pick you up." MacLeod nodded and set off up the large, winding marble staircase. He stopped the director of the company in the corridor, who pointed him to Shelly's room. As he walked down the long, marble hallway, MacLeod noted how reminiscent it was of the Boston courthouse. Gently, he rapped on Rochelle's door and pushed it open. She was seated in front of a vanity mirror, absently brushing her long red hair. MacLeod sat on a couch behind Shelly, not saying anything, not prying or pressing, just waiting supportively. She looked at him in the mirror.   
  
"I'm not a child; I don't need to be coddled."  
  
Duncan shook his head. "No you don't, but you need friends. It's no fun being alone, especially when you're Immortal; trust me, I know." All too well, he knew. But he had learned to cope, and knew that with time, she would also.  
  
She sighed, more out of sadness than exasperation. She set down her brush and rose from her seat. Going behind a door, she hummed softly to herself, a song MacLeod had not heard in seventy-five years. "Where'd you learn that?" he called. Rochelle re-emerged, wearing an over sized flannel shirt.  
  
"Frank," she answered. "He wrote it." She looked tired and Mac reached for her hand, pulling her down next to him. She leaned her head on Duncan's shoulder, closing her eyes. "Did you know about Noreen?" he asked.   
  
She nodded, "We were returning from her grave, the night Mom died. She'd told me bits and pieces of the story before, but never the whole thing. On the anniversary of Noreen's death, Mom decided I was old enough, I guess. She took me to the Cemetery-the Ambassador and his wife had her buried back in Boston-and told me everything." A long silence followed. Mac gently ran his hand up and down Shelly's arm, for reassurance and comfort. "Do you want to know how she died?"  
  
"I know it was a car accident and that you were with her, that much we were told."  
  
Shelly laughed sarcastically, "That about covers it, but did they mention that it should not have happened; it didn't have to have happened."   
  
Mac took her hand, "Don't."  
  
She looked at him, furiously blinking her long lashed eyes. "I have to." She took a deep breath and willed all her composure and strength. It had taken a long time for her to deal with her anger towards her mother, some of which she still carried with her. "It was raining, and we could barely see the road in front of us. I begged her to pull over, but she insisted that we were almost home and kept driving. I was so scared and I knew, I could feel that something bad was going to happen. The car slipped on wet leaves and spun out; we hit a tree. I managed to crawl out and went back for her. She was semi conscious and I got her out, but we were in the middle of no place in one of the worst storms the area had ever seen." Her voice wavered and MacLeod squeezed her hand. Shelly wiped a tear from her face. "She whispered for me to get help, so I ran. I ran out to the road and waited for someone, yelled for someone; at that point I would have been grateful to see Satan coming through the rain. No one came and I went back to Mom. She was soaked, as was I, and we were both shivering. I remembered that there was a blanket in the back seat and I pulled it out. I covered us with it and held her. I talked to her all night, even when she slipped into a coma. Even when," she paused, gulping. "Even when I knew she was gone." Shelly gritted her teeth and angry tears fell from her eyes. "If she'd just pulled over, if she'd just listened to me, then she'd still be alive."  
  
Duncan held her, smoothing her hair and whispering to her. He remembered one night, back in '88, when they had staying with her in Boston. He and Tessa had woken up to Shell screaming for Nicole, crying out to her, begging her to pull over and to wake up. Tessa had held her, stayed with her through the night, while Shelly slept. However, this time Tessa was not there to comfort her and MacLeod was not quite sure he knew how. What was he supposed to say? Get over it? Death happens? There'll be more? No, someone her age should not have to experience so much death. Someone his age should not know so much death.   
  
Especially not around Christmas. He remembered that Tessa had told him once how much Rochelle the child had loved the holiday. While he had never been big on it, MacLeod loved watching Tessa-also a big Christmas person-rip into the presents he had bought for her. Come to think of it, he had not celebrated a Christmas since her death.  
  
She clung to him, grateful for someone to be able to cling to for comfort. She began to remember a night many years ago, when a similar thing had happened. Tessa. Mom. Dead. Suddenly, Rochelle pulled away and pulled herself together. She thanked him for staying and tried to convince him to go home. She had almost succeeded when they felt the unmistakable sensation that another Immortal was near. "Amanda?" Duncan called. Because he did not receive an answer, he asked Shelly "Expecting anyone?" To his surprise, she nodded and rose from the couch. In one movement, they'd both drawn their swords and MacLeod motioned for her to check the windows while he checked outside her room.  
  
While Shelly found no one, Duncan found a note. It was addressed to her and he handed it to her. She opened it, read it and angrily crumpled it into a wad of paper. Throwing it to the floor in disgust, she told him, "It says 'I'm still coming.'"   
  
MacLeod looked to her in confusion, "And this means something to you?"  
  
She nodded, "It was not just some guy that killed Frank; his name is Samuel Genova and he has been after me for two years. I've managed to waylay him and cover my tracks, but he has still found me. He's made it his goal to destroy anyone who ever knew...one of the Ancient Immortals."  
  
Mac cocked his head, "Well that narrows it down; there are only a handful of them left on earth." *And I know one of them*, he thought.   
  
She again sighed, then, shrugging her shoulders tiredly, walked to the bed, and drew back the covers. MacLeod watched and wondered. She was so calm; maybe she had grown accustomed to being hunted. This letter was just a warning, but all the same, he expected her to show some outward signs of worry. "What are you doing?" he asked.  
  
"It's late; I'm jet-lagged and I'm going to bed."   
  
MacLeod nodded, "Do you want me to stay?"   
  
Yes! Rochelle's soul screamed. "No," she said. "He's been hunting my ass for two years, I doubt another night or two will make that big a difference to him." Shelly walked over to MacLeod and took his hands in her own. She knew that if she didn't stop Sam Genova, then MacLeod would be his next target. "It's a small world after all." The lyric played over and over in her mind.   
  
MacLeod conceded, "I'll help you prepare; you've been without a teacher for two years." He remembered that even after nearly ten with his kinsman and teacher, Connor MacLeod, he still hadn't felt prepared.  
  
"I was with one for five years," Shelly declared cockily.  
  
"Which is nothing more than a heartbeat for us. You need a teacher," he said definitively, gathering up his sword and trench coat.  
  
"You volunteering?" she asked. Right then MacLeod realized that the answer was yes, that he had just volunteered to take on another pupil. Was he ready to grow attached to a new student so soon after what had happened to his last? Duncan MacLeod decided the answer was, "Yes," he told her. She opened the heavy bedroom doors for him.  
  
"I have an am practice at the Theatre Francaise tomorrow. We move to the Opera on Thursday. I'm sure I'll be fine until then. Come around noon and we'll train then." MacLeod left and Shelly dead bolted the door behind him. She checked to see if all the windows were locked, even though she knew that they were; she settled in for the night. Into the darkened room she hummed a child's tune that she'd heard on an amusement ride in Florida when she was young. Just before she gave herself over to a deep, dreamless, much needed sleep, she whispered "Now I know why you loved him Aunt Tessa."  
  
* **  
  
Amanda lay awake in Mac's bed, waiting for his phone call. It was close to two in the morning and he still hadn't called. Suddenly, she felt his presence and jumped out of bed, tossing back the comforters. After pulling away from a long kiss, she asked expectantly, "Well?" He laid down his sword and began undressing. She watched as he removed his tie, his cumberbun, his shirt, pants, socks and shoes. Amanda watched as MacLeod lay in bed next to her and smiled when he took her in his arms  
  
"She's being hunted."   
  
A pause.  
  
"I'm going to be her teacher."  
  
Amanda absently traced patterns on his bare chest with her fingers. "Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, Richie was..."  
  
He cut her off, "My best friend, but that was a long time ago. Shell needs me. She needs a family." In the silence that followed, they did nothing more than breath. Duncan twisted a strand of Amanda's short, blonde hair around his finger, and Amanda wondered, *And exactly how much do you need her?*  
  
Out loud, she replied, "We're not supposed to have families."  
  
"Oh, it's not so bad," MacLeod said casually. He'd had two. Both of which ended in tragedy, but he did not want to think about that part. Raising a suspicious eyebrow, he asked, "You're not jealous are you?"  
  
"No!" she snapped. "Shelly's a lovely person," Her voice softened. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."  
  
Richie. Life. Grateful, but none the less indignant and determined, MacLeod said, "I'm teaching her, effective immediately."  
  
"Define immediately," she said.  
  
"Thursday," MacLeod replied rather huffily.  
  
Knowing that his mind was made up and there was nothing she could so to change it, Amanda snuggled against him and asked, "Need any help?" He smiled and nodded. She rolled over, on top of him, until she was on the opposite side of his body. He leaned his head on her shoulder and she ran her fingers through his short hair, which she still hadn't fully grown accustomed to. "We'll talk more about it tomorrow," she whispered, kissing him passionately.  
  
Smiling, he nodded and lowered himself on top of her. "Tomorrow," he whispered.  
  



	4. Chapter Three

Author's Notes: See the first several chapters for disclaimers. I love   
reviews, so please be constructive. Also, I don't own "Les Miz", I just   
think it's a really good show.  
  
Paris Opera House  
Thursday afternoon  
  
"One, two, three, up, down, good, seven, eight. Smile, two, three, four, jump, six, seven,   
spin, drop, two, up, four, run, run, run, stop!" The choreographer commanded, shouting   
out instructions. All the dancers, dressed in various leotards of various colors, froze,   
anticipating his next command. The music slowed. "Everyone turn, Shelly freeze,   
dancers leave, Rochelle spin, snap, snap, jete. Up, down, three, four, five, six," His voice   
slowed significantly. "And seven and split."   
  
A male dancer walked out on stage and stood before her. In one fluid motion, she   
collapsed into a heap at his feet; then raised her arms out, poised to take flight. The man   
lifted her up by her underarms and she did seem to fly above his head as he moved across   
stage. She arched her back and clasped her fingers behind his head. Gently, he lowered   
her to the floor and she took him down with her. They rolled over and over until it   
seemed they were about to roll into the orchestra pit when she suddenly stopped, forcing   
the male dancer to roll the opposite way. Clasping hands, they pulled each other to a   
standing position. As quickly as she knew how, Rochelle spun away from him. He   
danced towards her and she snapped her hand out, freezing him where he stood. Then,   
Shelly ran towards the man and jumped, seemingly over his head; but he caught her and   
held her there, suspended. After a few moments, she moved into a handstand on his   
shoulders, then, fell backward, seeming to drop, but falling gracefully to her feet, pressed   
against the man. He cupped her jaw in one of his large hands and the music stopped; all   
lights went out.  
  
"Beautiful!" the director yelled. The lights came back on, and Rochelle was on the floor,   
stretching. One of the other dancers tossed her a towel and she wiped her face, smiling   
appreciatively. She removed her shoes and wiggled her toes. She looked up at the other   
dancer, whose name was John-Mark. She said to him,   
  
"That was incredible; you and Anna Lisa will do just fine." Anna Lisa was John-Mark's   
real partner, but she was back at the embassy in bed with a hangover-too much good   
French Bordeaux. But the boy still needed to practice and it had been Rochelle to the   
rescue.  
  
The director called everyone's attention and told them to "Take five, change your shoes;   
we'll work on the musical next." They groaned, rather loudly, and dispersed. Shelly   
gulped her water, and she felt her skin prickle, her senses coming alive; another Immortal   
was near.  
  
"Perfect timing," she murmured. She looked to stage left and saw that it wasn't Duncan,   
nor was it Amanda. "Genova." she breathed. Rising slowly, Rochelle walked towards the   
giant; a foot and a half taller than she, who was five-nine, bald as an eagle, twice her   
weight and nearly twenty times as old. Samuel Genova stood, waiting, sneering.   
Underneath his long coat, Shelly could see his scimitar, gleaming in the bright stage   
lights. Gulping, defiantly she stepped up to him. "What do you want?" she hissed.  
  
"You know my ultimate goal, baby girl," Genova sneered.  
Rochelle shook her head, "He won't fight you; you should know that by now. You've   
been after him for a century and you're both still alive; that should tell you something."  
Genova caught her arm and held it tightly. "It tells me he's a coward; now getting back to   
your question, I want your head mounted on my wall."  
  
Rochelle's breath caught in her throat. Voices echoed from the backstage area and she   
knew that there were way too many people here to risk a fight. "I bet you do. If it's a   
fight you want, I'll give you one."   
  
Genova bowed deeply at waist, "Thank you. Finally, after two years, you've stopped   
running." Out of the corner of her eyes, Rochelle saw two people enter at the back of the   
theatre. They were to far away to feel, but she knew all she had to do was stall a bit   
longer. "Maybe I have. But not here; there are too many people."  
  
The giant leaned in close to her face. "Then where? You know I don't like surprises, and   
my patience is growing thin."  
  
Shelly waved her hand in front of her face. "Apparently, you don't like brushing either."   
  
Goliath lifted her up by her leotard, "Is that an insult little girl?"   
  
Rochelle nodded factually, while inside, she was gathering all her nerve and composure   
to keep from crying out or striking out. "You know," she said. "If you hurt me, my   
friends will come after you."   
  
Genova laughed. "What friends?" Then he felt it, they both did. Amanda and MacLeod   
stepped out from behind a box of props, swords drawn.   
  
"Them," Rochelle said, pointing.  
"Us." MacLeod said, waving his katana tauntingly. Amanda smiled slyly and waved.   
Samuel dropped Rochelle, who, after landing with a grunt on her bottom, scurried to her   
bag, retrieved her sword and stood between MacLeod and Amanda. The trio matched the   
giant step for step, advancing towards him as he backed towards the stage door.   
"This is against the Rules," he stammered.  
MacLeod raised an eyebrow, "Is it?" He looked at the two women, who shrugged   
innocently. Genova threw open the stage doors and said,   
"This isn't the end." He ran out the door and into the Parisian snow storm.  
  
Members of the troupe started running up the stairs from the dressing rooms behind the   
stage; quickly, the three Immortals hid their swords.   
  
"You okay?" Amanda asked. Shelly nodded and smiled gratefully. Satisfied, MacLeod   
headed out the stage door. "Where are you going?" Amanda called worriedly.   
  
"To find him."  
Rochelle rolled her eyes. Now he's really acting like my teacher, she thought. "Mac,   
don't; he'll kill you." He will anyway if I do not stop him, her mind added.   
MacLeod smiled, "'I'm not a child; you don't-'"   
  
Rochelle waved her hand, annoyed. "Yeah, yeah, but you still don't have to track him;   
this is my fight, he is after me."  
  
Mac countered, "And you're my student, I want you around long enough to teach." *I   
want you around period.* His mind said. He couldn't deal with loosing another pupil, or   
someone connected to Tessa. *MacLeod, you've got to let it go*. He scolded himself,   
knowing he never would; he never did. He kissed Rochelle and Amanda on their cheeks   
and headed out the door. After exchanging looks with Shelly, Amanda ran after him.   
  
"I know you've set your mind to this, and nothing I say will make you change your it,   
but," she positioned her body in his path to stop him from walking on. "She's your   
student and she needs you around to teach her. Besides, I need you around. Who else will   
bail me out of jail when I get the need to borrow something?"  
  
He laughed. "I never bail you out of jail." MacLeod arched a brow and turned on his heel,   
"Besides, there's always Nick."  
  
Aggravated, Amanda placed her hands on her hips, "Shut up." She took his hands in her   
own, "Stay. Please."  
  
MacLeod thought about it, finally throwing his head back in defeat. "All right, I won't   
go."   
  
Amanda nodded, "Thank you." She pulled him back inside. The troupe was now stripped   
of their leg warmers and sweat bands, some had pulled on sweat pants, ready for theatre,   
not dance. Amanda and Duncan took their seats and settled back, watching as the actors   
worked on Les Miserables. The actors did a dry, costume less run of the show, beginning   
at, appropriately enough, the beginning. Duncan and Amanda settled down to watch,   
wondering when Rochelle would appear. As it turned out, Rochelle was playing Fantine,   
the poor French woman who ultimately sold herself into prostitution to pay for her   
daughter's upbringing.  
  
"Now life has killed the dream I dreamed," Rochelle sang at the end of her character's   
song.  
  
Amanda shook her head. "It's a frighteningly accurate representation of those women   
back then," she hissed. "I knew some once." Years of thievery had saved Amanda from   
such a life, but many women during the eighteenth century in Paris weren't as lucky as   
the Immortal thief.  
  
MacLeod replied, "Except none of them sang." He paused, "At least, none of the ones I   
had the pleasure of...working with." He waited for a response.  
  
Amanda huffed. After a few moments she whispered, "I guess you'll need your memories   
to keep you warm tonight, Highlander."   
  
"And tell Cosette I love her, and I'll see her when I wake" Rochelle finished the song,   
slumping back onto the bed, supposedly dead. The two men on stage who were playing   
Javert and Val Jean finished their part of the scene and waited for the light change to   
signal a shift in scene. And they waited. And waited. And waited. As did Rochelle. After   
a minute or so of no light change, she opened one eye. To enhance the fact her character   
had died, they had thrown a harshly bright white light on her. And it was hot as hell.  
  
"Is anyone going to fix this or are we just gonna sit here all day?" she asked, tired of   
everyone waiting and doing nothing. The actor playing Javert let out a chuckle and the   
rest of the cast, who were hidden in the wings, began to ripple with laughter.  
  
MacLeod looked at her with a dumb expression on his face and mocked her with   
applause. She glowered and jumped off the bed, which was damned uncomfortable and   
no where close to an actual bed-it was little more than an old cot. "Ramón!" she yelled.  
  
The director replied from the call box, "Yeah?"  
  
"We doing Act One songs?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So I'm done, then."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No."  
  
*"Yes."*  
  
*"No."*  
  
"Louis," Rochelle called.  
  
"Yes, Shelly?" a man answered from the front row.  
  
"Do I have any more songs in Act One?"  
  
"No."  
  
Shelly grabbed her things, "I'm going to go now Ramón. My major commitments over   
and I am not critical to the rest of the show. Please." She used the same charm on him as   
she had used on the butler the previous night at the embassy, although today, it was   
funnier to watch.  
  
From the call box came, "Go Picaut, now, before I change my mind."  
  
Rochelle saluted him with an elaborate bow and said, "*Merci*!" She grabbed her bags   
and jumped off the edge of the stage, narrowly missing the corner of the orchestra pit.   
She plopped down in a seat a row in front of MacLeod and Amanda and began pulling on   
her sneakers. "Well," she asked. "What did you think?"  
  
Amanda looked at Duncan through the corner of her eyes and smiled sweetly at Rochelle,   
"Not bad. He says your interpretation is pretty accurate."  
  
MacLeod grunted and began to slide down his seat.  
  
Rochelle took a long-sleeved T-shirt from her bag and pulled it over her head, messing up   
her hair. She yanked the scrunchie form her long mane and let it tumble over her   
shoulders, making her appear extremely disheveled. "Ohmigod!" she exclaimed in   
aggravation at the two of them. "You're acting like two immature high school   
sweethearts. Thank God high school was not invented when you two met up. Now get   
over it, spank your inner child, locate your karma, do whatever you have to do, but *grow   
up*." She shook her head and rose to her feet, "Christ, your relationship appears to have   
the substance of that of mating yaks." She stormed out of the row of seats and up the aisle   
towards the entrance of the theatre. At the back, she leaned against the door, waiting for   
Itchy and Scratchy to catch up. She watched the action on the stage and saw that they   
were running the "Castle on a Cloud" number, with the younger girl who was playing   
the younger version of her character's daughter.   
  
In his seat, MacLeod sighed. He looked at Amanda and said, "Sorry."  
  
"Yeah, me too," she said hesitantly.  
  
They were silent for a few minutes.  
  
"Good enough; let's go," Mac said and jumped to his feet.  
  
"Yeah," Amanda agreed and followed him out. The found Rochelle standing in the main   
lobby of the historic Opera house. She smiled and said,  
  
"Are we better now?"  
  
Amanda looked at MacLeod and rolled her eyes. He shrugged and said, "We've got to set   
a few rules."  
  
Rochelle raised a brow, "'There can be only one'?" MacLeod frowned and she smiled,   
"Okay, okay, um, let me guess: I'm the student, you're the boss; it's gonna hurt, but don't   
complain; it's either this or my head; concentration is key; I must focus...yada yada   
yada" She folded her arms, "Did I get it?"  
  
Amanda laughed, "You forgot 'I keep my mouth shut and do as I'm told.'"  
  
Rochelle frowned and began to turn. Deadpan, she said, "If that's a rule, then you can   
forget this whole training thing; I'll take my chances."  
  
MacLeod shook his head. "I'm surrounded," he murmured to himself. To Rochelle he   
said, "When you train with me, it's all business; understand?"  
  
Rochelle made a sweeping bow despite her pounds of baggage, "Yes sir."  
  
"Good." He smiled and winked at Amanda. They walked with Rochelle to the entrance of   
the theatre. He pointed out his car, which was parked nearly a block away. "Race you."  
  
"You're on." She took off, barreling out the door and onto the sidewalk. She once again   
found MacLeod and began sprinting for it. She had no more than gone ten feet when   
MacLeod and Amanda overtook her. As he passed, MacLeod grabbed Rochelle's waist   
and threw her to the ground, scattering her bags all over the snow-covered ground. By the   
time she had recovered all her things, brushed herself off, and made it to his car with   
some dignity still in tact, Mac and Amanda were lounging impatiently. Shelly stood and   
glowered until he popped his trunk.   
  
"Water?" he offered, after she'd dumped her bags in the back of the jeep. She snatched   
the bottle from him angrily and jumped in the back seat. As they pulled away from the   
curb, MacLeod looked at her in the rear view mirror, "Thus endeth lesson number one:   
Immortals cheat, just like everyone else."  
  
"Hell, I knew that," Rochelle threw the now empty bottle at the back of his head.  
  
  



	5. Chapter Four

CHAPTER 4  
A week later  
  
"Ugh," Amanda groaned. If she had known the requirements, she wouldn't have signed   
up for the role. They had been going at it like the Final Gathering was tomorrow for   
almost seven days, twelve hours a day. She dumped her gym bag on MacLeod's bed,   
releasing a tired sigh. Her short cropped blonde hair was damp with sweat and her legs   
were covered with still healing welts. Her arms were sore from wielding her sword all   
day long, attacking Shelly or MacLeod, or being attacked by Shelly or MacLeod, all in   
the name of education. MacLeod walked past her, headed for his liquor chest, and   
grabbed her by the waist. She slapped him good naturedly and kicked off her sneakers,   
accidentally hitting him in his well-toned posterior. "I'm taking a shower," she   
announced, heading for the bathroom.  
  
Rochelle laughed tiredly as she watched MacLeod glare at the elder Immortal with mock   
anger. Depositing her own bags near the door, she collapsed to the floor with a loud   
groan. Startled, MacLeod came and stood over her. Her eyes were closed, her legs were   
spread wide apart, and her arms were draped ungracefully above her head, her hair   
spilling out from her scalp like a tousled sheet. She opened one eye and gazed up at him.   
"Honestly, Duncan, you need furniture."  
  
He rolled his eyes, "I have furniture." With his hand, the Highlander gestured over to the   
couch.  
  
Rochelle nodded, "This is true. But there's nothing here." She indicated the empty space   
between the bed and the near wall. The only response she received was a grunt, and a   
hand offering assistance getting up. She shook it away, thanking him, but none the less   
saying she'd rather remain here for a while. Like until the next World War. MacLeod   
shrugged and poured himself a glass of absinthe, haven taken a liking to it several years   
prior, although he still enjoyed a good single malt more than anything else.  
  
She raised her head listlessly, "Absinthe?"  
  
He nodded, "Want some?" She shook her head eagerly, and raised her torso by her hands   
and feet into what was known as 'a bridge,' then flipped herself heals over head until she   
was standing. The young Immortal strolled over to him, and took a glass from MacLeod,   
drinking it slowly, savoring the flavor of the antique liquor. "I thought this stuff was   
illegal."   
  
Her teacher raised his brows mischievously, "It is." He watched as his new pupil hoisted   
herself up onto the kitchen counter.  
  
"Frank had a whole slew of this stuff in our wine cellar."  
  
"In Alaska?" MacLeod asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her.  
  
Shelly nodded. "It was my reward if I was," she paused. "How did he put it? An   
'attentive, obedient student, able to keep her teacher on his toes with her smart-ass   
attitude.'" She mimicked her deceased teacher's voice almost perfectly, laughing as she   
finished. "We drank this stuff every night."  
  
MacLeod laughed loudly, and then rose to begin supper; she caught his arm and slid off   
the counter, "No you don't, Highlander; tonight, I'll cook."  
  
He stared her in the eye, "Your cooking has improved, I hope."  
  
Shelly's face scrunched in distaste. "It was just that one minor incident with the mussels."  
  
"We never let you cook again." MacLeod noted, remembering his and Tessa's first night   
in Boston and how adamant Rochelle had been to cook for them. She spent three hours in   
the kitchen, and they couldn't figure out why until they began eating the seafood. "How   
was I supposed to know that if you could hardly open them they were bad?" she had   
asked between episodes of vomiting.  
  
"Don't worry," Rochelle assured him as she began rummaging around his small kitchen.   
"I'll stick to something simple; what do you have?" She found some pasta, cream, spices,   
and cheeses. Working busily in the confined area, Rochelle looked up through the   
porthole occasionally. "Look, a tour boat,' she remarked, spying it move up the Seine,   
filled with people.  
  
"That's where we met," Duncan said softly, sadness filling his eyes. Rochelle looked up   
in rapt attention. Without being asked, MacLeod began his story.   
  
  
*Paris, 1979*  
  
Duncan MacLeod ran as fast as his Immortal legs could carry him. Behind him he heard   
the screech of police whistles, knowing that even farther behind him, a man was cursing,   
cursing the fates, his bad luck, law enforcement, and a certain infamous Immortal named   
Duncan MacLeod. Glancing momentarily over his shoulder, MacLeod saw he was still   
being followed by a police officer whose car he had moments earlier rolled over. Looking   
ahead, he spotted a tour boat moving away from the slip. With a new burst of speed, he   
dashed towards it, jumping off the edge, landing with a thud on the upper deck where a   
beautiful young tour guide was beginning her shpiel. "What are you doing?" she   
exclaimed, horrified.  
  
MacLeod shrugged innocently. "I didn't want to miss the boat," he said simply.  
  
"Another leaves in twenty minutes; you could have been hurt." She looked up and saw   
several policemen shouting angrily after the boat, which was moving further and further   
up river.  
  
"I wanted this one," MacLeod said, taking a piece of chocolate from the woman seated   
beside him.  
  
The guide smiled in exasperation and continued her speech. "As I said before, ladies and   
gentlemen, Paris is full of surprises. On your right you will see the Cathedral of Notre   
Dame. Construction began in 1339 and was completed in 1445." The man who had made   
the spectacular entrance raised his hand. "Yes?" she called on him. "What is it?"  
  
"1442," he said, munching on his candy.  
  
"Excuse me?" she asked, obviously flabbergasted.  
  
"It was completed in 1442, not 1445."  
  
"Forty-five," she argued.  
  
"MacLeod shook his head, "Forty-two."  
  
The tour guide placed her hands on her hips, "And I suppose you were there."  
  
The man shook his head again, "It was a little before my time." He flashed her a genuine   
smile and her knees weaken a little. She tried not to let her swooning show. Shaking her   
head, the guide continued her speech.  
  
"As I was saying, it was completed in 1440, forty..."  
  
"Two."  
  
"Five," she said, continuing on, now that the boat was far past the famous cathedral. She   
was tall, slim, blonde, attractive, and spoke with a French accent. Forty five minutes   
later, the tour boat returned to its slip and all the occupants departed, save for one.   
MacLeod went up to the guide, who was putting the microphone back. "Duncan   
MacLeod," he extended his hand.  
  
She turned around, startled, "Excuse me?"  
  
"My name is Duncan MacLeod." Not knowing what to do, she shook his hand.  
  
"Tessa. Tessa Noel." MacLeod kissed her slim, fair hand and bowed at the waist  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mademoiselle," he said, showing off his fluent knowledge of   
the French language He hoped it would charm her. It did. At that moment, they entered   
into a relationship that would span over a decade and two continents, and be filled with   
love, happiness, joy, sex, pain, and trials which would threaten to tear them apart   
forever.  
  
*Paris, 1997*  
  
Rochelle's head was supported by her right hand, while her left hand was absently   
stirring the pasta sauce as she listened to his story. Tessa had never told her that story,   
although she'd told her many others; about times she and Nicole had spent together,   
frivolous young girls intoxicated with the very essence of Paris. MacLeod's head was   
bowed reverently, sadly, his dark brown eyes casting a deep pallor across his handsome   
face. Shelly could see them filled with an impenetrable darkness-impenetrable until he   
permitted. She was beginning to realize just the type of man her new old friend was:   
honorable, strong, kind and sensitive, yet still driven by his warrior heart and experiences   
learned very young, very long ago. She had heard many stories about this man, this   
legend in his own right, from another legend, and she had listened in rapt attention,   
wanting to have a connection to her past.  
  
"Taste," Rochelle commanded, offering him a spoon dipped in the Alfredo sauce. He   
obeyed.  
  
"Needs salt." The distraction was welcome, and Shelly noticed the darkness ebbing;   
perhaps in was not as impenetrable as she had originally thought.  
  
Duncan handed her the spoon, noticing how she was staring at him, covering it   
occasionally by focusing on something behind him. He knew she was studying him,   
learning about him, drawing her own conclusions, coming up with more questions that   
would be asked later. At that point, Amanda emerged form the bathroom, wrapped in a   
towel. Duncan walked over and took her in his arms, kissing her gently. Rochelle cleared   
her throat loudly. Usually, this had the desired effect, but not this time. She tried   
something else. "If you want to eat, you have to try this again, or it will be too bland."  
  
"She's very persistent, that girl," Amanda whispered.  
  
MacLeod nodded. "I might have to talk to her about that," he murmured back.  
  
"You can try, but it will not work," Rochelle called form the other side of the barge. "I   
have good ears too." Knowing they weren't going to get any father, MacLeod and   
Amanda parted. Amanda re-entered the bathroom with her clothes; Duncan walked over   
to the kitchen and sampled Shelly's sauce.  
  
"Done," he announced.  
  
His student smiled mischievously," I know." She dumped the noodles that had been   
sitting in a colander in the sink.  
  
MacLeod chuckled, "You little smart ass."  
  
She nodded, "That you; I like compliments where they are due." A memory stirred in   
him, and he reached out to tickle her belly. She whipped around and held up her hands   
for protection, backing away form the Immortal, "Oh no." He had a devilish grin on his   
face and was nodding. He chased her across the barge, trapping her against the wall. He   
pinned her to the ground and tickled her until tears streamed down hr face and she   
screamed for mercy.  
  
Amanda leaned against the bathroom door frame, smiling at the spectacle. She could see   
that MacLeod was thoroughly enjoying himself, and she was happy. He was on the floor,   
laughing out loud, his broad chest heaving, his face pinched with joy. Rochelle lay beside   
him, wiping her eyes, "I can't believe you did that!"  
  
"Believe it; how could I forget the easiest way to subdue you?" It was a trick Tessa and   
Nicole had used when Rochelle had been a baby and toddler when it had been difficult to   
catch her. Tessa had used it once in Boston, just for old time's sake. Duncan remembered   
how she and Rochelle rolled around the hotel suite, screaming, laughing, crying, just   
having fun.  
  
Rochelle laid her head on MacLeod's shoulder, "Just don't tell Sam Genova; I'll be gone   
in seconds." Her voice had been filled with happiness and joy, but now it was thick with   
utter seriousness. Duncan's smile faded, and Amanda could see the pain filling his eyes.   
She clapped her hands, "Are we going to eat, or are you two going to remain there all   
night?"  
  
They sat up, brushing themselves off. "Salad?" Rochelle suggested, not exactly   
volunteering to go and get some.  
  
Amanda grabbed her purse, "Since I'm the only one decent, I'll go get it." She tossed her   
coat about her shoulders and left the barge. Duncan stood and meandered over to the   
bathroom.  
  
"I'm going to take a shower." The oak door shut definitively and she was alone in the   
barge. Rochelle poured herself another glass of absinthe and set about finishing the meal.  
  
  
MacLeod stepped beneath the lava jets that were pouring form his shower head. He stood   
there, nude, allowing the hot water to wash over his head, stream over his shoulders,   
arms, back, flowing over his hips and buttocks, and down his legs. His taut muscles   
slowly eased and released a loud groan; it sounded more like an animalistic cry,   
something that had become synonymous with getting rid of pent-up stress and energy. As   
he lathered his long torso, he tried to reassure himself that Rochelle was ready. Now I   
know what Amanda feels like, he thought to himself. Every time he was challenged,   
Amanda fussed and worried, one time going so far as to have him arrested to keep him   
alive. Although recently, she had been off on escapades of her own; stories had gotten   
back to him. It helped having a Watcher for a friend. It was also a hindrance.  
  
One problem at a time, he told himself. He had a tendency to get side tracked, creating   
more worries.  
  
The soap washed off his body and he leaned against the ceramic wall. No interference,   
his mind told him, sounding somewhat like Methos. He knew the Rules, but MacLeod   
still wanted to protect Rochelle. He owed Tessa that much. He could practically hear her,   
scolding him for dwelling on her death, telling him to let it go.  
  
"I never will, any of it," he whispered, turning off the water so quickly that the pipes   
complained with a bang.  
  
  
Rochelle set plates out on the counter. She scavenged his cabinets for minutes, finally   
finding his plates hidden way in the back. Above her, she heard uneven footsteps as   
someone walked across the deck. Mortal, relax, she told herself. A middle-aged man with   
salt and pepper hair came down the steps. "May I help you?" Rochelle asked.  
  
The man glanced around the barge, "Mac here?"  
  
She nodded and bellowed, "MacLeod!" Joe Dawson heard his friend yell from behind   
the bathroom door.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Company!"  
  
"Hey Mac!" Dawson called.  
  
"Joe! Be right out!" MacLeod sounded surprised.  
  
Rochelle wiped her hands on her pants and extended it to Joe, "Rochelle Picaut."  
  
Joe's eyes shot up in surprise, "Joe Dawson."  
  
Rochelle noticed the blue tattoo on his wrist. She raised a brow and reached out for his   
other hand. "Interesting tattoo," she observed, turning his wrist over.  
  
He smiled, "I thought so."  
  
She looked him straight in the eye, "Apparently so do a lot of other people. Tell me; is   
the tattoo mandatory when you become a Watcher?"  
  
Joe frowned in confusion, "Excuse me?"  
  
She smiled kindly, "Don't worry. I'm not angry. I just know about your organization."   
She shrugged. "Actually, I think it is a good idea that someone else knows about us and   
records what we do."  
  
Joe was a bit speechless. Had MacLeod told her about them? Of course, Dawson really   
had not right to be angry; after all, Mac hadn't taken the oath. Nor had he broken it   
repeatedly. Still, Joe felt uncomfortable with Immortals knowing about their   
organization. It was unnerving. You never tell the rats they're actually in a maze. He   
looked this Immortal up and down, seeing what had become of her over the years. She'd   
cleaned up nicely. She was tall, attractive, not thin, but none the less pretty. He wondered   
what had brought her to MacLeod after all this time. It had been over a decade. Of   
course, Joe knew their meting would happen sooner or later; he'd heard when she became   
Immortal. He had also looked in on her file from time to time. Not recently though.  
  
Joe smiled, "Thanks."  
  
Rochelle returned to the kitchen. She looked up at him and asked "Do you know who I   
am?"  
  
He nodded, "I have a pretty good idea." Then he said, "I thought you were in Alaska."  
  
"Moved." she said quietly. "Frank's dead."  
  
"Oh," Joe said, not knowing what else to say. Then the gears kicked in and he began to   
remember what he had read in her file. "Oh." He looked in the way of the bathroom door.   
"Does MacLeod know?"  
  
She gazed at him uncertainly, "About Frank?"  
  
"No."  
  
Her eyes opened wide. Oh no. "You know?" she blanched.  
  
Dawson nodded silently.  
  
"Are you going to tell him?" her eyes had a sense of desperation in them.  
  
Joe shook his head again, feeling as though it were about to roll off, "Nope. It isn't my   
place."  
  
Rochelle visibly relaxed. She changed the subject, "Amanda will be back in a minute. We   
were about to have dinner; you are welcome to join us."  
  
Before he could answer, MacLeod emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. He   
was surprised to see his friend; Joe didn't visit Paris very often. Duncan smiled, "Joe,   
what brings you to town?"  
  
Dawson shrugged slowly, "I gotta make a living somehow; you're my meal ticket   
buddy."  
MacLeod grinned, even though he was still a bit uncomfortable with the thought that   
every minute of his Immortal life he had been watched and documented for posterity.  
  
Joe laughed at the look on his friend's face.  
  
MacLeod turned to Rochelle, then back to his Watcher, "I'm sure you've met Rochelle   
already."  
  
"We have," Rochelle replied. She whistled at his choice of attire, "Are we trying to start a   
new trend, Duncan?"  
  
Joe chuckled and looked at her sideways.  
  
MacLeod cocked his head, thinking the exchange odd. But he dismissed it. Satisfied,   
MacLeod retrieved some clothes from a dresser drawer and returned to the bathroom.   
  
Rochelle turned to Dawson, at the same time working the jammed cork of a wine bottle.   
"So, are you going to stay or not?"  
  
Dawson nodded, "I never pass up free food."  
  
"A man after my own heart," Rochelle smiled. She stuck the wine bottle in his face,   
  
"Good, then make yourself useful." She then excused herself, saying she had to make a   
few phone calls. She went above deck, and figured that while she was up there, she   
would keep a look out for Amanda as well.  
  
When MacLeod came out of the bathroom a second time, Joe was still fighting the cork.   
"That's Rochelle Picaut?" he asked, having not read anything about her in several years.   
His Immortal friend nodded. "Yeah."  
  
"Boston Rochelle; '88?" He cursed as the wine cork remained fixed and rested in the   
mouth of the bottle.  
  
MacLeod took it from him. "Yes, that's 'Boston Rochelle.'" The cork popped open; Joe   
rolled his eyes and took it from his friend, later placing it on the counter behind him.   
  
"And she's here because...?" Curiosity, not simply business.  
  
MacLeod sighed. Joe, ever persistent, ever trying to keep the line between friendship and   
business unobscurred and in view, although it often got blurred. "She came looking for   
Tessa."  
  
Joe winced.  
  
"She's being hunted."  
  
Dawson did not make any kind of movement, as though he had already known that.   
"Who?"  
  
"Samuel Genova."  
  
Joe Dawson nodded. Sam Genova was one nasty son of a bitch with a score to settle.   
According to the Watcher files, he had a beef with one of the few remaining Ancient   
Immortals and using the Immortal's friends as bait. The thing was, Sam Genova had been   
at it for nearly a century, and the Ancient Immortal was still alive. It was too bad many of   
his friends could not have the same said about them.  
  
MacLeod noticed his friend's expression and raised a brow. "How much do you know   
about him?"  
  
More than I'd like, Joe thought. Past experiences had made him ever mindful of his oath,   
and he repressed the urge to spill all his knowledge to Mac; who the ancient Immortal   
was, what his connection to Mac's new pupil was, what his connection to Mac was. But   
all Joe said was, "He's one nasty son of a bitch with a score to settle."  
  
MacLeod was about to respond when he felt a disorienting vertigo; another Immortal.   
Normally, he would have shrugged it off as Amanda or Methos, and now, even as   
Rochelle coming back inside, but something made him reach for his sword. When he   
heard tires squeal, and saw Rochelle spin on her heel, dashing back up the stairs, he   
grabbed her sword as well and ran up the stairs, followed by his disabled Watcher.   
Peering into the cold darkness, he saw Amanda sitting in a pile of bruised vegetables, her   
sword and Rochelle at her side; the young Immortal was holding a note in her hands.   
"Amanda!" MacLeod ran down the plank, at his lover's side in moments. Amanda's face   
was bruised, much like her groceries, but it wasn't pain MacLeod saw on her face, it was   
shame. Rochelle quietly took her sword from him.   
  
Amanda gulped, "He jumped me from behind; I was walking back...I wasn't ready..."   
Her entire body ached, and she could feel herself being put back together. She found   
herself thanking God that Wolfe wasn't around to see this; he'd never let her hear the end   
of it.  
  
Duncan placed his fingertips gently on her lips and lifted her into his arms. He walked   
past Joe, who was making his way over to Rochelle.   
  
"Sweet Jesus," Dawson gasped when he saw Amanda's bruises. He looked curiously at   
the note in Rochelle's hands. It read: "This was just a warning; I'm getting closer. Next   
time it will be your head. Sweet dreams."  
  
The young Immortal ripped it to shreds and tossed the paper fragments into the Seine,   
now swollen with ice and melted snow. Sensing her anger and fear, and knowing why, if   
his files were updated, Joe gently led Rochelle back inside. Amanda was seated on the   
bed, wrapped in blankets, clutching a cup of coffee, which Mac had made with awe-  
inspiring quickness.   
  
ochelle sat next to her, "God, I'm so sorry." Amanda shook her head and patted her   
hand. Joe glanced up at MacLeod, who was obviously furious. Rochelle noticed it to.   
  
"Stay," she commanded. Rising from the bed, she took her teacher aside. "I can tell what   
you're thinking and it really will not do any good. He's toying with me, using you all as   
game pieces. The Game to him is truly a game; he toys and taunts people until he gets   
what he wants, until he'll finally get what he wants. If you go after him, you'll just get   
yourself into trouble; possibly killed."  
  
Slightly amused by her commanding tone of voice and the amount of worry displayed on   
her face, MacLeod crossed his arms. "You have that little faith in me? In my abilities?"  
  
"I know what his are. You go after him, you will die."  
  
Retaliation. "So will you." He returned to Amanda, and persuaded her to get some rest.   
He kissed her forehead and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and drifted off   
into Never Never Land. Rochelle opened her flip phone and called the embassy, saying   
she wouldn't be back tonight. After he was sure Amanda was asleep, Duncan turned to   
Dawson, "Joe, I'd feel better if you stayed here tonight; I'd know you were safe."   
Suddenly much too tired to argue, Joe Dawson shrugged. MacLeod pointed out the spare   
blankets and pillows were; Rochelle retrieved some for herself and the Watcher. They   
argued over who would take the couch, each saying the other should have it. Joe won.   
  
Ten minutes later, the only remaining people were conscious Shelly and MacLeod.   
Wordlessly, one warmed the noodles while the other warmed the coffee. They ate in   
silence, fuming, worrying, thinking. MacLeod cleared the table, while Shell-Belle   
dumped the coffee grounds. Then MacLeod stripped down to his underwear and got in   
beside his Immortal lover, holding her in his arms, and fell asleep.   
Rochelle found a queer peace in the silence of sleep, deciding then and there her next   
course of action. Retrieving a notebook from her gym bag, she proceeded to write a   
letter. Finally satisfied with the result, she quietly tore it from the book and scrawled   
MacLeod's name on it. Tucking it inside her shirt, she laid her head on a pillow, covered   
herself with a blanket, and fell into a deep and troubled sleep.  
  



	6. Chapter Five

CHAPTER 5:  
  
Before dawn the following morning, Rochelle woke. She hadn't slept well in the first   
place; she was too anxious. She returned the pillow and blanket to the closet, and dressed   
quickly, silently. Rochelle placed the letter in a spot where it wouldn't be found until   
later, she hoped. Shoes in hand, Shelly crept over Joe's sleeping body and off the barge;   
her sword beneath her coat. On the deck of the barge, Shell tugged on her sneakers,   
lacing them quickly as her eyes darted about. Walking through the labyrinth of Parisian   
streets and boulevards, she heard two sentences, two voices ring over and over in her   
mind. First, her own,   
  
"'You go after him, you will die.'"; and MacLeod's, "'So will you.'"  
  
Maybe she would, she thought. She had seven years of training, but little experience. She   
had twenty-three years worth of back bone, but her courage was waning. She had had so   
little to live for, now she had so much. She had had an hour to prepare as she walked   
towards the Luxembourg Gardens, now she was there and had none. She sat on the edge   
on a fountain and traced a pattern in the ice. "Oh why, oh why, oh why-o did I ever leave   
Ohio," she murmured ruefully. Rochelle jumped at every noise, every sound, knowing   
her advisary would find her, eventually. And in this, she derived some courage and   
comfort; although she wasn't the hunter, she was no longer the prey.  
  
***  
  
Joe Dawson groaned as he woke. Shivering on the cold, hard wood floor, he opened his   
eyes, noting two other sleeping bodies. He glanced over to the couch and found it   
vacated. Confused, but none the less indifferent, Dawson dismissed Rochelle's absence.   
Leaning on his cane, he pulled himself to his feet and walked over to MacLeod's antique   
wooden stove; antique like so many things in MacLeod's life, antique like MacLeod.   
Within moments, a crackling fire burned, the barge filling slowly with heat.   
Next order of business, coffee. As he placed a filter in the top, his eyes fell on a piece of   
paper stuck under the fruit bowl. Dawson sighed as he pulled it out. He didn't know what   
Shelly's writing looked like, but he was willing to stake what remained of his legs on the   
assumption that this letter, addressed to MacLeod, was from her.  
  
"MacLeod!" Joe hissed, hoping to wake his friend. No luck; he tried again. "Mac." The   
Immortal made no movement. Dawson saw an orange lying in the fruit bowl and picked   
it up. He aimed at his friend; then, using his old, high school football precision, he threw   
the citrus fruit at the unsuspecting Immortal, trying not to hit Amanda in the process. He   
succeeded. MacLeod frowned and sat up, glaring at his mortal friend.  
  
"What the hell was that for?" he whispered, so not to wake Amanda. He picked up the   
orange and examined it groggily. Dawson waved the paper and MacLeod slid out of bed,   
walking barefoot and noiselessly across the floor. He read the letter. As he read, he could   
almost hear Rochelle's voice.  
  
*MacLeod  
  
I'm sorry, but I had to leave; I could not let him torture   
you or me any longer. I hope you understand. I hope you   
forgive me. But if you do not, if you cannot, I will   
understand. But you and I both know that I'm ready as I'll   
ever be. Just like Frank, you trained me well. Just like   
Tessa, you offered your love and compassion to someone you   
hardly knew. And just like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan   
MacLeod, you were willing to risk your life for someone   
whom you cared about, someone you believed in; now let me   
do the same. Let me try to do the same, selfless thing you   
have been doing for, what is it, four hundred years?  
  
You and Amanda were so nice, so caring, so trusting, it   
blew my mind. For all you knew, I could have been a   
psychotic who was after the head of one of the legendary   
Immortals; yes, whether you like it or not, you are a   
living legend in your own right. Unlike so many others, You   
love and care and show compassion, as where others would   
merely step aside. You care about the Game and the   
Gathering, but do not live by them. I hope Amanda realizes   
how truly lucky she is.  
  
In the days we've known each other, I mean really known   
each other, you have been my father, my brother, my   
confidant, my teacher, my friend. I will never forget you   
as long as I live (we give new meaning to that, don't we?).   
I hope you will never forget me.  
  
Now, in the slice and dice department (don't laugh), I'm   
good, he's better, but you are better still; and in having   
you as a teacher, I hope I have acquired a morsel of you   
ability, your strength, and your talent. But most of all, I   
hope to have taken away some of your courage, because, Lord   
knows, I am the biggest wimp ever to walk the earth.  
Thank you for being my friend; thank you for being you.  
  
Love always, Shell-Belle*  
  
MacLeod sighed and passed the letter to Dawson. "Dammit." He strode back across the   
barge; in two strides he was at his dresser, in three, he was half dressed, and in four his   
coat and katana were on his back and he was almost out the door. Duncan paused, looked   
down on his sleeping lover, then up a Joe.  
  
"I'll tell her you took Rochelle back to the embassy."  
  
MacLeod smiled, "Make it sound convincing; you're a horrible liar."  
  
"Go."   
  
MacLeod half-smiled and left.  
  
***  
  
Rochelle felt it. Not just the disorienting vertigo MacLeod and Amanda felt. Her skin   
prickled and her every sense was alert; she placed a hand over her queasy stomach.   
Samuel Genova un-gracefully crashed through the bushes and stood before her. He   
looked around, expecting this to be some kind of trap, expecting another Immortal to   
come crashing through the trees, or police to come screeching around a corner. But to his   
surprise, there was no one there but him and his prey.  
  
"No one here," she told him. "No one to interfere." She knew that was only partially true.   
Watchers were around.  
  
"No one to see me kill you," Genova growled. They were circling each other, waiting for   
one to make a move.   
  
"My, aren't we sure of our self," Rochelle remarked dryly. Samuel lunged at her, sword   
aimed directly for her abdomen. Effortlessly, Rochelle sidestepped him. He spun around,   
sword directed towards her feet; she jumped and swung for his head. He ducked. Their   
swords clashed, steel ringing, Immortals grunting. Genova brought his sword down,   
slicing through her shoulder, to the bone. Rochelle fell to her knees, swearing audibly.   
Her left arm now immobilized, at least for the time being, she only had her cunning and   
right arm to rely on. Genova stood over her, leering, convinced he had won.  
  
"There can be only one," he sneered, raising his sword over his head.   
  
She frowned, "Oh, that is so cliché." As he brought his sword down, she swiftly raised   
her own, blocking his scimitar. In one move, she tucked her sword against her body, and   
rolled on her right side, through his legs. Before he had a chance to turn around, Rochelle   
kicked her right leg out, hitting him in his most vulnerable area. Samuel Genova dropped   
to his knees, gasping for breath.  
  
Shelly leaned on her sword and pulled herself up, grateful that her shoulder was healing   
rapidly. She stood behind him, watching with bizarre pleasure as the giant, who was so   
cocky and persistent, remained on his knees, clutching his groin.   
  
"I guess it's true what they say, a man's brain really is in his pants."  
  
"Which is why Mamakos always protected your scrawny little ass," Paul Bunyan   
retorted, struggling to get back on his feet.  
  
Enraged, Rochelle released a warrior's cry and ran straight at the giant, wielding her   
sword in an arc over her head. Just as Rochelle had done before, Sam Genova   
sidestepped her, and pushed her to the ground. She landed on her left side and cried out in   
pain, her shoulder not yet entirely healed. Watching as she lay on the ground, Goliath   
raised his scimitar to end the battle.  
  
***  
  
As he sped through the still empty streets, MacLeod realized he had no idea where the   
battle might be taking place. Annoyed, MacLeod stopped at a traffic light and pounded a   
number into his cell phone. Back at the barge, his phone rang. Joe picked it up. "Yeah."  
  
"It's me." Who else would it be? Shut up. "I don't know where I'm going. Are there any   
spots where he takes people, or where she fights?"   
  
The light turned green and MacLeod gunned through.  
  
Rochelle had no favorite spots. She didn't have much of anything when it came to   
fighting. Joe thought for a moment, "None that I can recall. But, if I remember correctly,   
Shelly loves flowers and gardens."  
  
"Of course, I should have remembered." He hung up and made a sharp right, heading   
south towards Paris's most famous botanical landmark. His imagination began to run   
amuck. He envisioned Rochelle, bloody and helpless, pleading for mercy at the hands of   
Sam Genova. He saw her head ripped from her body; another friend, gone. Angrily,   
MacLeod scolded himself. Be positive; she's not dead. Another light turned red, and he   
floored it.  
  
***  
  
Seeing him come running towards her like a maniac, Rochelle instinctively thrust her   
weapon upward, piercing Sam's stomach. Surprised, he dropped his blade and fell to his   
knees. Desperately, he tried to pull the sword from his abdominal area, but Rochelle did it   
for him. She pressed it against his neck, taunting him.  
  
"I'll see you in hell," he murmured.  
  
"You know, somehow, I don't think so." Smiling wickedly, she separated his head from   
his body, taking the prize. "I win." she whispered, watching as the Quickening rose to   
take her, wondering what it would be like. But she didn't imagine, could never have   
imagined what it felt like to have raw fire wrap around her bones, pump through her   
veins, boiling her blood. She couldn't have dreamed how the power felt as it permeated   
her brain, or blinded her as it flashed behind her eyes. She had never felt such pain before   
and cried out, arms extended, sword puncturing the frozen earth. Wind whipping her hair,   
Rochelle collapsed to her knees as the final portion of the Quickening absorbed her body.  
Images passed before her; she saw her mother and the accident. She remembered Tessa   
and MacLeod in Boston as though it were yesterday. The sight of rocks flying at her face   
as she hurled herself off a bridge was forever seared into her mind. She almost laughed at   
the memories of Frank endlessly laboring to prepare her; almost hurled as she recalled   
Genova ripping Frank's head from his shoulders. She remembered the fear of her first   
performance with NATT, and MacLeod's face as he recognized who she was.  
  
The Quickening ended.  
  
Shocked, stunned, physically drained, she remained there for what seemed like hours, but   
in reality, were only a few minutes. "I did it Frank," she whispered. To her shock and   
amazement, she felt her skin prickle as another Immortal approached. *Oh God*, she   
thought. Friend or foe, there was going to be hell to pay.  
  



	7. Chapter Six

CHAPTER 6:  
  
As his car sped through the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens, Duncan MacLeod saw   
lightning pierce the sunlit sky; the Quickening. Eyes bulging, not even bothering to shut   
off his car, Mac ran towards the maelstrom, which was harder to find after it had ended.   
The first thing he saw as he came through the trees was a headless body. To his relief, it   
was much too large to be Rochelle. Shell-Belle was still on her knees, head bowed, now   
more in shame than anything else. MacLeod could see how shaken she was, how her   
body shivered and shook silently. He knelt by her side. "Your first?"  
  
She turned her head slightly, "You think?" He reached out and touched her shoulder.   
Rochelle collapsed against him, and held him so tightly, he thought she'd crack a few   
ribs. She was cold to the touch and he wrapped his long trench coat over her leather   
jacket. He unwrapped her fingers from his waist and she looked up at him. "Am I in   
trouble?" Her voice was like that of a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.  
  
"Not really." MacLeod lifted her in his arms; and in one move, flipped her sword, which   
had been lying on the ground, up in the air. Then he caught it. Once they were both in the   
green jeep, she gave him his coat back. Laughing quietly, she turned her head to look at   
him. "Seven years, during the Gathering no less, and that was my first Quickening."  
  
"How'd you manage that?" MacLeod asked, turning the heat on.  
  
Rochelle grinned. "God, I avoided us like the plague after Frank's death. If I ever felt   
another coming, I'd run like hell in the other direction."   
  
She was beginning to sound like Methos. They would have to be introduced. MacLeod   
stared out the window, "You took a chance coming to find me."  
  
She shook her head. "No I didn't."  
  
Mac turned the wheel and drove away from the Gardens. He thought Rochelle had fallen   
asleep when he heard her murmur a familiar name. He slammed on the brakes. "Who?"  
  
"He's the ancient Immortal I was telling you about; he was Frank's teacher."  
  
MacLeod was flabbergasted. "And you knew we knew each other."   
  
Rochelle nodded.   
  
"And you didn't tell me?" The Highlander asked, astonished. His pupil shrugged.   
MacLeod then realized that their mutual friend could have ended the feud with the giant   
years ago. "Why didn't he just finish it?"  
  
She turned to face her teacher, amused how incredulous he was. "You know what he's   
like; he's not like you or Amanda or Frank. He's worse than I am, er, was; if he feels   
another Immortal coming, he makes tracks. Confrontation isn't something he enjoys."  
Duncan furrowed his brow. "Yes it is! He's constantly being a royal pain in the ass."  
Shelly smiled. "Who do you think I got it from?"  
  
Behind them, cars leaned on their horns. MacLeod drove onward, towards the Immortal's   
apartment.  
  
***  
  
He and Alexa were standing on a beach, in the south of France, watching a   
Mediterranean sunset. Clothed in a purple bikini that set off her hair, she was holding on   
to his arms and leaning against him, content. He gently kissed her hair, relishing an   
emotion he hadn't felt in years. His lips moved over her skull, down her face, finding   
their final destination at her lips. Suddenly, his love collapsed...  
And he was standing over her hospital bed, watching with great despair as he saw tubes   
running in and out of her once healthy body. Monitors made bleeping noises that were   
bloody annoying. He raked his hands through his short brown hair, feeling tears well up   
in his eyes. His craggy face was contorted with pain. Alexa's eyes fluttered open. She   
whispered his name.  
  
"Adam."  
  
He crouched down and stroked her hair. "I'm here my love. I told you I'd be back."  
She smiled feebly. "I knew you would. I knew I had to hold on." Her beautiful face   
twisted with pain and she squeezed his hand. He whispered soothing words into her ear.   
  
"I'm cold." she murmured. He gently eased himself into the small bed and held her   
protectively, hoping to give her some of his Immortality.  
  
"Are you tired, my love?" he asked, wishing to God she'd say no. She nodded slowly.   
  
"Then close your eyes." His voice was choked with tears. "Close your eyes and sleep   
Alexa. I'll stay with you." Moments later, he felt her sag against him and heard the heart   
monitor flat line. He held his beloved against him, whispering her name, as if to make   
sure it was permanently seared into his memory. A nurse came in and turned off the   
monitors and began removing the IV line from her hand. "Sleep, Alexa. Sleep."  
  
Methos was jarred out of his dream. His eyes flew open as he felt Immortals approach.   
Confused and alarmed, he grabbed his sword. Amanda and MacLeod never visited him.   
Clothed merely in boxer shorts, he moved silently to the door and pulled it open, sword   
out. He dropped it as he saw Rochelle and MacLeod standing before him in the hallway.   
He noticed Shelly's hand was over her stomach. He smiled coyly. "It still makes you   
want to wretch, doesn't it?" His former pupil's pupil breezed past him. Methos turned to   
Mac. "When she senses others, she has to struggled to keep from displaying her dinner."  
  
"You didn't have to tell him that." Shelly said, coming back with a glass of water. She   
pulled MacLeod inside.   
  
Methos shrugged. "I like to hear myself talk."  
  
"No kidding." MacLeod said. They sat in the kitchen chairs.  
  
"It's done?" The elder Immortal asked.   
  
Rochelle nodded and set her water lass down on the table. "Yeah."  
  
Methos looked at MacLeod. "You?"  
  
"Me." Rochelle stated.  
  
"You?"  
  
"Her." Duncan said, finding the dialogue comedic.  
  
Methos rolled his eyes.  
  
"I stopped running." She stood up and walked behind him. Standing there, she slapped   
his shoulder. "But I wouldn't have had to have run if you'd just taken care of it." She   
slapped his shoulder again. "You."   
  
Again.   
  
"Nearly."   
  
Again.   
  
"Got me."   
  
Again.   
  
"Killed."   
  
Again.  
  
"Ow!" he exclaimed. "What'd you do that for?"  
  
"You could have ended it." MacLeod said flat out.  
  
Methos shrugged in his usual, annoying way. Then, also in his usual, annoying way. "Do   
you know how early it is?"   
  
Rochelle slapped him again.   
  
MacLeod laughed heartily.  
  



	8. Epilogue

EPILOGUE  
Two weeks later  
  
"I don't have to go." Rochelle said to MacLeod as Methos helped load her bags onto the shuttle   
bus that was moments away from taking the North American Theatre Troupe to the airport and   
their next destination, Germany.  
  
"Amanda," Methos said, grunting as he hauled the last suitcase aboard the shuttle. "What's this I   
hear about you and some cop named Woof?"  
She groaned, "He's an ex-cop, if you must know. And his name is Nick Wolfe, not Woof."  
  
Methos remarked thoughtfully, "A thief and a cop; it's rather poetic."  
  
"Or a giant conflict of interest," Joe added.  
  
Rochelle yelled, "Come on you two, leave her alone."  
  
Methos pouted, "But we were having so much fun."  
  
The young Immortal smiled ruefully at Amanda and told Methos and Joe, "Leave her alone or   
we'll rip your lungs out and wear them as back packs."  
  
Joe blanched. Methos muttered, "Enough graphic imagery?"  
  
Rochelle returned her attention to Mac, "So, do I stay or do I go?"  
  
MacLeod smiled wryly. His pupil had been saying the same thing for two days. He knew she had   
only the best of intentions in mind, but he also knew that if he let her stay, then she would be   
missing out on the experience of a lifetime. Well, this one anyway.  
"Go." he said, grasping her shoulders.  
  
She bit her lip. "Are you sure? I mean, it's kind of hard to be taught, or to teach, when the pupil   
is in a different country."  
  
"Go already!" Amanda exclaimed. She hooked on to MacLeod's arm. She, MacLeod, Methos,   
and Joe Dawson, had come to the embassy early in the morning to see Rochelle off. The young   
Immortal smiled and nodded. Methos clapped his hands sharply.  
  
"All done, your highness."  
  
"Oh shut up and do something without complaining for once in your life." Shelly remarked,   
embracing him as her companions laughed. "Now say thank you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Say thank you." she commanded.   
  
Methos shrugged. "Thank you."  
  
Rochelle smiled. "You're welcome."  
  
Methos raised a brow. "For what?"  
  
"Goliath is no more." Shell-Belle reached out and hugged Amanda.  
  
"Don't be a stranger." Amanda murmured, kissing the girl on the cheek.  
  
"I won't." Rochelle held MacLeod tightly. "I'll write. Besides, they're being so decent as to give   
me a two week vacation after we finish in Norway. I'll come back."  
MacLeod nodded. "Be careful."  
  
"Always. Besides, if you want to check up on me, all you have to do is check with Joe, right?"  
  
Dawson smiled. "Anytime." He kissed Rochelle's cheek and she boarded the bus.   
  
She looked at Amanda. "Take care of him."  
  
Amanda smiled. "I always do." The bus doors closed and Shelly took her seat. She waved as the   
bus pulled out of the long driveway. She waved as it drove her down the street towards the   
airport. She even waved as the planed lifted off the ground.  
  
The three Immortals and Dawson waved until the bus had disappeared around the corner.   
  
"Anyone hungry?" Methos asked.  
  
"Famished." answered Amanda.  
  
Joe laughed. "Do you to solve everything with food?"  
  
MacLeod shook his head. "Actually, Amanda steals and Methos disappears or complains until   
someone tries to cut his head off."  
  
Both Immortals shot him disparaging glances.  
  
Then they answered a resounding yes.  
  
  
1  
  
3  
  



	9. Story Explanations

Names To Explain: In case you didn't figure it out by reading the story  
  
(Auhtor's note: I wrote these a long time ago...anything I screwed up is an oops on my part. All HIGHLANDER fans will know. Everyone else, oh well, take my word for it.)  
Richie: Richard Ryan, a street kid who broke into MacLeod and Noel Antiques   
in the first episode, The Gathering. He would become Duncan and Tessa's charge, living   
with them (although they never officially adopted the screwed up orphan) until Tessa   
died in The Darkness; in that episode, it was revealed that Richie too, was Immortal   
(Duncan's teacher and good friend Connor MacLeod alluded to this in the first episode.)   
Richie then became Duncan's student, friend, and sidekick, until he was accidentally   
killed by the Highlander in Archangel.   
  
Tessa: Tessa Noel, an art student at the Sorbonne, and a Parisian native, met Duncan   
MacLeod when he leapt aboard her tour boat (she apparently paid her way through school   
giving tours of the Seine). Their relationship lasted fourteen years and spanned two   
continents. In 1983, her lover revealed to her his Immortality. They were already living   
together in an apartment in Paris. At some point after this, they moved to the Pacific   
North West and started an antique store. Although she was put in danger innumerably in   
the name of The Immortal Game (see "Words to Know"), Tessa succumbed to a rather   
pedestrian, be it ever so violent, death: [In The Darkness, as written on the first pages of   
this novel] she was shot at point blank range by a junkie who had attempted to rob her. It   
took her lover many moons to get over her death; to this day, he still carries some degree   
of guilt.  
  
MacLeod: Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, born in 1592 in the Highlands of   
Scotland in the village of Glennfinnan on the shores of Lock Shiel. Raised a chieftain's   
son, young Duncan was once saved from a wolf by the legendary Witch of Donan Woods   
(this "witch" ended up being an Immortal named Cassandra, who foretold of the events   
that would occur in the episodes Archangel, Avatar, and Armageddon). He was in love   
with a woman from another clan, Debra Campbell and intended to marry her. There was   
only one problem: she was betrothed to his cousin, Robert. The two MacLeods dueled,   
with the latter on the wrong end of the claymore. Duncan could not bear the blood on his   
hands, and denounced Debra. They made up, but she ended up falling over a cliff (as   
revealed in Homeland). He eventually died in battle, only to rise up again. His father   
called him the devil and revealed to him that the real son of Chief and Lady MacLeod   
had been still born, and Duncan had been brought to them by a mid-wife claiming he was   
the devil's bairn. (Pronounced in the same way as a big thing you hold farm animals in,   
this word is Scottish slang for child) Duncan wandered for two years until being told of   
Connor MacLeod by an Immortal hermit, who took his own head and supplied Duncan   
with his first Quickening (see "Words to Know"). Duncan was taught by his kinsman,   
and later wandered the earth loving, fighting, and changing people's lives until the time   
of the Gathering (see "Words to Know"). His life from there was chronicled in   
Highlander: The Series and in my own works Highlander: The Rochelle Chronicles.  
  
Amanda: Amanda (whose last name used to be Deveraux, but has since been changed   
to Montrose, as it has most assuredly been changed before) was born over one thousand   
years ago in Normandy. She was beggar who was beaten to death for stealing a loaf of   
bread during the Bubonic Plague. She revived and was taught by a woman named   
Rebecca, who gave young Amanda a piece of the Methuselah stone-a mystical talisman   
said to bring eternal life and vulnerability to the wearer. (Methuselah, in Jewish and   
Greek mythology, was said to have possessed the stone and lived for over 900 years,   
although he was a mortal. He then gave to stone to his grandson Noah, who, with his   
family, survived the Great Flood) She too roamed around the known world until she and   
Rebecca met up with Duncan MacLeod in Italy in 1635. (It was insinuated that Amanda   
had a less than amicable past with Connor, but was never elaborated upon.) After that,   
she and MacLeod were on-again, off-again (and on and off and on and off and on and off   
and on...) until he met Tessa (duh!!!) She tried to break them up in The Lady and the   
Tiger, but was unsuccessful. She returned periodically through out history of the show,   
until finally getting her own spin-off when HTS was axed. However, it tanked after one   
season, due to lack of a certain Scottish Immortal.  
  
Joe: Joseph Dawson, a Vietnam vet who lost his legs to a land mine and spent the next   
twenty years using prosthetic legs and Watching Duncan MacLeod. He is a Watcher (see   
"Words to Know" ) He was supposed to observe in secret, but was forced to make his   
presence known in The Watchers. Over time, he and his assignment forged a lethal, and   
at times, unstable friendship. They've taken bullets for each other, and Dawson provides   
Mac with vital information few Immortals are privy to. Dawson was once sentenced to   
death by the Watcher Tribunal for committing treason (one of their rules is "Observe and   
record, but never interfere." Oopps. Guess who saved him). They ended up loving each   
other like brothers; in Not To Be, Joe tells his Immortal friend: "I can't imagine my life   
without you Mac. Fact is, I don't want to."   
  
Methos: Imagine being so old, you cannot remember where, or when you were born.   
Methos is over five thousand years old, and is considered a legend, because it is   
impossible for any Immortal to survive that long. Guess what: nothing is impossible.   
Check out this guy's resume: aside from being married, like, sixty-eight times, Methos   
was once Death, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (as revealed in Comes a   
Horseman and Revelation 6:8). He was a doctor in the south during slavery; a member of   
fabled poet Lord Byron's decadent circle of debauchery; lived in Ancient Greece and   
Rome; and knew Helen of Troy. He was even a Watcher (unbelievable irony, an   
Immortal masquerading as a Watcher), involved in Research (he was researching the   
Methos Chronicles, trying to find himself. It was rather introspective and poetic) under   
the guise of mild-mannered Adam Pierson. He fell in love with Alexa, a waitress at Joe   
Dawson's bar, but she was terminally ill. He tried to get the Methuselah stone back from   
Amanda as his beloved lay dying (except it didn't work and the poor girl croaked.) He   
eventually left the Watchers when Joe was nearly executed. His relationship with   
MacLeod has also had its shares of ups and downs: when he was a Horseman, he held   
Cassandra in captivity and killed her people (Cassandra and Mac were sleeping together   
when this piece of news came to light.)  
  
Darius: Legend has it that the great warrior king Darius was an Immortal, consumed by   
evil and greed. Then he took the head of another Immortal at the ancient gates to Paris,   
and with his Quickening (see "Words to Know") became of man of peace. Darius found   
God and became a priest at Sainte Julien le Paurve. (Saint Julian the Poor church, a rather   
famous church in Paris) He was a missionary who anointed the dying in the fields of   
battle. He met Duncan MacLeod at one of these fields and changed the Highlander's life.   
He became a mentor and example of peace for a man tired of war and death. The   
character of Darius was killed by the Hunters (see "Words to Know) when the actor who   
portrayed him, Werner Stocker, died suddenly of a terminal illness.  
  
Nick: As the second main character on Amanda's spin off, The Raven, Nick Wolfe, a   
cop whose partner was shot by a fellow (albeit dirty) officer. At the same time, he   
discovered Amanda was Immortal and the two became unlikely bedfellows (both literally   
and figuratively). When Nick became a PI, Amanda was often his sidekick and partner.   
The two had chemistry and an intense physical attraction, which is probably why   
Amanda never told Mac about him (voluntarily). Nick was eventually shot dead, at which   
point it was revealed that he too, was Immortal. (So much for less old Immortals, fewer   
new Immortals!) But then the show was axed; so we will never know what became of   
poor Mr. Wolfe (not that anyone truly cares).   
  
*Rochelle: Born in Paris in 1975 to a single unwed mother, Rochelle Picaut (originally   
Rochelle Daniels-Smith) had a bit of a tough life. As Immortals have no real biological   
parents, Rochelle was probably an abandoned baby switched accidentally with the   
biological child of the woman she calls Mom. Her mother was the daughter of a United   
States ambassador, and Tessa Noel's best friend, also a student at the Sorbonne. The two   
women raised Rochelle in Paris until she was five, at which time Tessa moved in with   
MacLeod, and Rochelle and her mother moved back to Boston, where her mother had a   
good job set up. Rochelle and her mother were all each other had in the world until   
tragically, her mother was killed in a car crash. Tessa tried to adopt her, but the adoption   
was denied, and Rochelle was bounced around from foster home to foster home until she   
committed suicide. Her DYS worker, a man named Frank Fidalos, as an Immortal, and   
trained the girl, who had become a street junkie and an alcoholic. IN five years, he   
reformed her, sent her to college, and taught her how to be an Immortal. But then he was   
decapitated by an enemy. Rochelle moved from their Alaskan home to St. Louis to join a   
theater company. They toured Europe on a mission of diplomacy, and she came across   
MacLeod. But there is a catch: she is expecting to find her "Aunt Tessa" as well.  
  
*Nicole: Nicole Daniels-Smith, one of the daughters of the American Ambassador to   
France, had a bit of a wild side. She was terribly promiscuous, until one day, she got   
knocked up. Fearing a political scandal, her parents were forced to kick her out after she   
refused to get an abortion. She moved in with her best friend, Tessa Noel, and the two   
women raised her daughter, a precocious child named Rochelle. When Tessa eventually   
moved in with her boyfriend, Duncan MacLeod, Nicole and her daughter moved back to   
Boston, where Nicole had a good PR job lined up. Tragically, she was killed in a car   
crash, orphaning her only child. She never saw her best friend again after leaving Paris.  
  
*Noreen: Noreen Daniels-Smith, twin sister to Nicole, aunt to Rochelle, daughter of   
Ambassador Smith and Mrs. Daniels-Smith, was killed in a car crash along Paris' right   
bank six months before her sister became pregnant. She was the Smith's only other child.  
  
*Frank: Frank Mamakos, 1500 years old at the time of his death, was Rochelle's social   
worker, teacher, and the first real father figure she ever had. He affords Rochelle a special   
connection to the Highlander, although Duncan MacLeod does not initially know they are   
related. (Think "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon")  
  
*Denotes characters of my own creation that were not originally a part of Highlander lore.  
  
Words To Know  
  
Game: The Game, refers to the battle through the centuries between Immortals.  
  
Rules: As with any other game, this one has its own set of unbreakable rules.  
  
1)You may only use a sword. This is an Immortal's only weapon of choice and   
may be used to obtain a Quickening by decapitation. (Decapitation is the   
only way an Immortal dies and doesn't come back. Everything else, they pop   
back up.)  
  
2)Do NOT, under any circumstances, fight on holy ground. The consequences   
can be deadly. (In Little Tin God, Joe gives an example of two Immortals   
disobeying this law: "Once these two Immortals were going at it in a shrine...in   
Pompeii 49 BC")  
  
3)Immortals have no real biological parents. They have been around since the   
beginning of time and will be around until the last head falls. How they get   
here is anyone's guess. (They are mortal until their first death. But after they   
get over that, it's just one big, never-ending, swords flying, heads falling   
party.)  
  
4)Immortals can have no children (It's kind of easier that way. They see   
enough death without having to bury children along the way. Imagine, if this   
rule were not in place, Methos' track record with kids) Sterility, though, does   
in no way hamper an Immortal's sex drive (In MacLeod's case, apparently, it   
only augments it. The boy was always jumping into bed with somebody.   
Sometimes, they never made it to a bed...If you can, catch the first scene in   
To Be; let me just tell you this: it ain't an earth quake that's rocking the   
barge)  
  
5)No outside interference. This includes other Immortals, mortals, or weapons   
that are not of the sharp and pointy orientation.  
  
6)Do not fight in front of mortals if at al possible. AVOID doing this at any   
cost.  
  
7)Do not tell mortals of the existence of Immortals. (This rule is periodically   
broken form time to time as necessity dictates. Of all the rules, this is the   
most lenient and the one with the biggest loophole)  
  
8)In the end, there can be only one...(see next "Word to Know")  
  
  
Gathering: As Immortals go at it through the centuries, there are less and less old   
Immortals and fewer and fewer new Immortals. At some point, when the ratio of new to   
old is correct, all Immortals will feel an irresistible pull to a far away land to fight any   
Immortal who crosses their path. Then these remaining Immortals will duke it out until   
there are only two left. The winner of that competition will then have all the power of   
ever Immortal that ever lived: all their thoughts, dreams, fears. Everything that made up   
those Immortals will be inside the Last.  
  
Quickening (also known as The Prize): When one Immortal decapitates another,   
all the power of that now metabolically challenged Immortal goes to the winner in the   
form of lightning and electrical energy. Receiving a Quickening is extremely painful, as   
one is receiving the power of that Immortal, and the power of any Immortals that said   
dead Immortal has killed.  
  
The Prize: Other than a Quickening, this refers to what the Last One receives. Besides   
all that power, that Immortal is said to have evolved to a higher plane of existence. Not to   
mention that they will be able to rule the world for eternity if they so desire.  
  
Dark Quickening: If a good Immortal kills one too many evil Immortals, and takes in   
their evil Quickenings, the myth said that the evil would overwhelm the good, as opposed   
the balancing it out. No one believed this myth to be true until Mac's friend Jim Coltec, a   
Native American hyoka, had one too many. A Dark Quickening can be likened to a   
sonuvabitch of a hang over that never goes away. It drives the Immortal mad. Mac saved   
his friend this anguish by chopping off Coltec's head. But then he had the dark   
Quickening and was a bit loony himself until Methos kicked his ass and made his good   
half fight his bad half. (Guess which half won)  
  
Watchers: A secret society of men and women who observe and record, but never   
interfere. They know the truth about Immortals, as they have been observing and   
recording Immortals' lives since the beginning of Immortal kind. Immortals aren't   
supposed to know about them, and it seems that the only ones who do are aquainted with   
Duncan MacLeod. (Guess after four hundred years he forgot how to keep a secret.)  
  
Hunters: Watchers who have taken too many knocks to the head. These Watchers do   
not believe Immortals a valuable part of history, but instead, abominations in the eyes of   
God. These men and women were determined to wipe out Immortals until MacLeod   
stopped them and their leader, James Horton (FYI: James Horton was Joe's brother-in-  
law, so it took a few times to stop the guy)  



End file.
